


Of Beginnings

by Aytheria



Series: Pagan 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 01, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Episode: s05e19 Hammer of the Gods, Gen, Misunderstandings, Pagan God Dean, Pagan God Sam, Pagan Gods, Transformation, liberal twisting of spn lore, sort of Time Travel AU but alternate season at the same time okay, the cult of Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3727255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aytheria/pseuds/Aytheria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the Apocalypse and the pagan gods aren’t just going to roll over and let the world end. One of them has a plan, something the angels and demons won’t see coming. Sam and Dean Winchester certainly don’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I will admit this is very vaguely inspired by the pagan gods 'verse by...Zanne? I can't find it anywhere, so if anyone can drop me a line about that, that would be great. Moving on.
> 
> _  
> (EDIT: So it got taken down, in case anyone's wondering about that. RIP pagan gods verse. You will be missed. You were a multi-fandom epic verse of awesomeness)_
> 
> This fic will be in 3 parts: beginning, middle, end. This fic is Arc I of a yet-to-be-determined AU 'verse that I ~~may or may not~~ _will (eventually)_ continue. This 3-part fic will have a contained plot, though, so never fear.
> 
> As the tags may have clued you in, this fic involves a lot of lore twisting and poetic license. Tags may be added as I continue. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.

**_Arc I_ **

 

 

_Prologue:_

*

** J ** anus knew what was coming before it happened. He was the god of endings, after all, but he was also the god of beginnings. Transition - doorways, passage, and most importantly... _time_. 

  
The problem with _time_ was that it was fluid. Mutable. The future never stood still, and the past was never as set in stone as one would believe. It was firm, but still moldable, especially with enough power. The angels knew this. Some gods knew this as well.

He had seen what would happen, how it would play out. By the time the day arrived - that pivotal moment when all possible futures would merge and set along one, single, lonely road - Janus made sure to be there. There was the slimmest chance, after all, that it could work - their plan. But if it failed...if it failed, then it would be too late. Oh, not for the world, for certain, but for them? The old gods? It would be over. Done. 

 

And Janus wasn’t quite ready for that yet. 

 

He still had power. Not as much as he’d had during the time of Roman Conquest - those were the great years, the good years. But enough. Enough to do what had to be done. It all came down to the Winchesters - Sam and Dean - two seemingly unimportant humans upon which the fate of them all hinged. To think that hundreds of deities could be undone just because of two insignificant mortal men and the Judeo-Christian beings’ obsession with them and their little end-of-days spat. He still cursed the day when Christianity infected humanity - like a virus, it spread. The old gods had been strong, once, but when more than half the world believed so strongly in the strength of one, single all-mighty deity...well, there wasn’t much they could do in the face of such belief. 

 

And belief was _everything_.

 

Angels. He hated angels. So pompous. So smug. So set on destroying the world. Dean Winchester’s description of them was quite apt, he’d give the little mortal that much. 

 

He almost had to admire the two men. They were nothing but fleas in the face of godly and angelic power, and yet they never once backed down. It was nearly enough to make him feel sorry for what he was going to do. Nearly, but not quite. Lucifer had to be stopped. Kali and Balder and Odin all thought that meant killing the Winchesters so the angels would have no vessels, but Janus wasn’t that naive. Heaven had too much power and control over the human soul - killing them did nothing but place them right where the angels had easy access to them. 

 

No, the trick would be to place the Winchesters out of reach for good. The only way to do that was to take away angelic control. That meant keeping them out of Hell, Heaven...even Purgatory. If it could only be as easy as sending them to Purgatory...but Janus had seen what would happen if they tried. Monsters had been created by Eve, and Eve was a daughter of God. As long as the mortals were still under the influence of anything associated with Judeo-Christianity...the angels could always fix things. 

 

There was only one solution. It was a simple solution, almost laughable, really. The problem lay in the secrecy. Of keeping it away from the watchful eyes of the angels. He’d need the full cooperation of every old god of all shapes and sizes. 

 

Except for Loki. Loki, Loki, Loki, truly the ultimate Trickster. They’d have to keep it from him as well. 

 

When he looked into the past, he couldn’t yet see whether it would be possible. So many things could go wrong. And Janus only had this one chance. Once the angels caught on, he’d have no more opportunities - past or present. It was now or never. 

 

He saw this all, pondered this all, in the days and weeks and indiscernible time between leading up to the Meeting. 

 

The future kept twisting, never quite set, but the closer the hour drew, the more it solidified. When the brothers Winchester showed up at the Elysian Fields motel, Fate had already decided. And so had Janus. 

 

He never revealed his presence. To those who didn’t know how to look between the cracks in time, or those brief moments when the doors opened and closed, he was invisible. Odin saw him, so did Hermes, but neither made mention of it. They were used to Janus’s surveilling ways. He saw Lucifer arrive, he saw the death of Gabriel, he saw the deaths of them all. And so, in the cracks of time between then and now, he drew his power around him and slipped back, back, back, before the deal, before the demon-blood awoke - right back to the beginning, to just before that first night when Dean broke into his brother’s college rental to begin the steps of the journey that would lead them to that one pivotal point in a run-down, made-up motel full of wishful thinking and desperation. 

 

He rested. Built up strength. The brothers had yet to catch the attention of the angels. Those angelic dicks didn’t care - not yet, at least. Not unless either of the Winchesters died and there was no way out. They’d only notice if one of the brothers' souls departed the Earthly realm. And it was not Janus’s intention to have either of them depart. Not now, not ever again. 

 

So he began. His first stop was Coyote. The Native American Trickster God would appreciate the irony behind his plan - he would be the first to agree. The first to begin. 

 

The angels would regret their arrogance. 

 

 


	2. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam know when something's up, but this is weird, even for them

_The Beginning:_

 

_*_

 

Bobby Singer gets his first inkling that something’s rotten in the state of Denmark when he comes across the website. He’s surprised it’s taken him this long to find it, but then most of his research consists of inhaling lungfuls of dust as he bends over old, rotting tomes. It’s also pure coincidence that he finds the site, because it’s the type of thing he’d normally dismiss as utter crap. Mostly because it’s a _fan_ website. And not just any fan website, but the kind of website that’s normally run by bored, pimply teens in their mothers' basements trying to get noticed. The only reason he even comes across it at all, is because he’s looking up something he never thought he’d look up before: _helpful_ spirits. Miracle-working spirits. 

 

Naturally, it’s centered around those damn Winchester boys. 

 

He’d been surprised by the call. Hadn’t really heard much from them in a while, until one day, outta the blue, Sam Winchester calls him on the house phone sounding highly disturbed and asks him whether or not it’s possible for helpful, stalker spirits to exist. 

 

_Damn John Winchester_ , is Bobby’s only thought. _Damn John Winchester to Hell for abandoning those boys on their own like this_. Somehow they’ve gotten themselves mixed up in some real bullcrap. 

 

Sam thinks they’re being followed, by someone or something, and whatever it is has been...helping them. It was subtle at first, things they’d both dismiss, even as trained hunters. Mere coincidences. But when a pattern starts to develop, it’s no longer coincidence. Dean figures it’s that bastard John, followin’ and helpin’ on the sly. Sam’s not so sure. Bobby has to agree. 

 

And now this? This...website? 

 

Calmly he reaches for the phone and slowly punches in Sam’s last known number. It rings once, twice, and Sam picks up on the third. 

 

“Hey, Bobby. What did you find?” he greets, not bothering to waste time mincing words. Bobby can appreciate his straightforwardness, especially after this latest discovery. 

 

“I’m gonna text you a web address. Check it out and you’ll know as much as I do. Either way, something ain’t right here, Sam. I dunno what’s going on, but you boys be careful, you hear me?”

 

“I hear you.”

 

“And keep that damn brother of yours in line. He’s too reckless.”

 

Sam grunts. “Don’t I know it.” Bobby can practically see the eye-roll. Sam Winchester was always a smartass, just like his brother, but more subtle about it. 

 

“Keep your eyes open, and you tell me if you see anything else strange going on.”

 

“Will do. Thanks, Bobby.”

 

Bobby hangs up with a snort. Then his eyes rove over the website again in concern. At first glance, it’s easy to dismiss it. It’s far too flashy and amateurish. It just screams dungeons and dragons and fake wicca all rolled into one. There are plenty of websites like this out there which tryto make up their own religions, or deify some random game or book character. And this website is just like any other, dedicated to two pagan gods who aren’t real. He would know. 

No, that’s not the concerning part. The concerning part is the description of the two so-called gods. Because when you clear away all the fluff and flash, they sound an awful lot like Sam and Dean. And _that’s_ concerning. 

 

Who exactly is running this site and what’s their endgame? Are they after the boys or just a misguided fan? And just how in the damned hell did they get all that information to begin with? 

 

He writes down the website and vows to keep an eye on it. Maybe call up a favor or two, get it checked out to see who runs it. Because it can’t be a coincidence that when he tries to research ‘helpful spirits’, he gets _this_. Somehow, the two incidences must be connected. He just really hopes those boys aren’t already half way up shit creek without their paddles. 

 

_***_

 

S am notices it first, but brushes it off as coincidence. He can no longer ignore it after St. Louis. Winchesters just aren’t born that lucky. He’s found ten and twenty dollar bills in the gutter _three_ times now, the diners are _always_ having a buy one get one free special, and the motels keep leaving little incense pots in their rooms - even when they switch motel chains. And that’s just Sam. Dean’s got lucky more times in these past several weeks than he usually does in a month. 

 

The hunts go too smoothly. The usual rule of thumb is: if it can go wrong, it will. No exceptions. But instead it’s like every plan they come up with plays out according to script. Like there’s a wizard sitting behind the reality curtain, manipulating it all from the shadows. And they’re the puppets. 

 

But the shapeshifter drives it home. The shapeshifter has him putting all the clues together. Because they left the body there for the police to find, expecting the chase, expecting to have to go undercover. But when the news anchorwoman reports on the Dean-look-a-like serial killer previously plaguing St. Louis, she remarks that the killer remains unidentifiable.

 

Sam calls Bobby. 

 

Bobby calls back and sends him a text. In the interim, Sam tries to convince Dean that something’s been _helping_ them. 

 

“Dean, we left that body right out in the open! We knew the consequences of that, but we couldn’t have the cops still looking for ‘you’.” 

 

Dean crunches down on one of those hotel pillow mints that get left on their pillows after the cleaners come in. He shrugs. “Obviously they’re just keeping it under wraps.”

 

“She said unidentifiable, as in dental records, DNA, facial recognition, the works.”

 

Dean pops Sam’s mint into his mouth as well, sucking on it thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s Dad. Could be following us, cleaning up after us…We should ask around.”

 

“Since when has he ever cleaned up after us?”

 

Dean shrugs again, eyes chasing the shadows cast by the muted television. 

 

“And don’t you think it’s weird we’ve been having so much good luck lately?”

 

“We’re owed some good karma, Sammy.”

 

And that’s the end of that. Sam’s not exactly a pessimist, but he’s not going to ignore the obvious. Thankfully, neither is Bobby. When he first reads through the amateur website Bobby sends him, he feels a chill creep down his spine. This...This Dean won’t be able to ignore.

 

Dean’s breath is minty fresh as he hovers over Sam’s shoulder, brow furrowed. He unwraps another mint as he’s reading through the damning evidence, the crunching annoyingly loud in Sam’s ear. 

 

“Do you mind?” he scowls. Sighing, he shoves out of the chair and lets Dean take over. He waits impatiently, arms crossed. 

 

“Okay,” Dean finally relents. He’s read the website (not that there’s much of it in the first place) about twice now. “Okay, so that’s weird.”

 

“Bobby’s worried.”

 

Dean straightens in the chair, swiveling around so he straddles it. One arm hangs over the back, a foot tapping thoughtfully. “Okay, so either we’ve got some seriously misguided and dedicated fans or…”

 

“Someone or _something_ knows too much,” Sam finishes pointedly. 

 

“So we be careful.”

 

Sam’s worried that won’t be enough. They don’t know what they’re dealing with yet. Hopefully Bobby will come up with something. And in the meantime...they’ll keep tracking John’s movements. 

 

***

 

D ean has to finally admit there’s something fishy going on after he ends up tied to a tree in Burkitsville in a planned sacrifice to a Norse Pagan God along with poor Emily, the only innocent in the whole damn town. He doesn’t know where Sammy is, but he can only hope the kid is okay. Right now he’s really wishing Sam had actually decided to go to California, despite Dean’s ultimatum, instead of getting in the car and coming with him into this clusterfuck. 

 

Admittedly, the website is reason enough to be wary, seeing as it’s religiously updated itself after every new exploit. The only reason they’re not holed up somewhere in a mountain cabin Cold War-style is because the website gets one thing consistently wrong - whoever’s been documenting their exploits thinks they’re supernatural creatures. Just of the decent variety (as if _nice_ monsters actually exist!). Either they’re doing it for fun and just recording Dean and his brother’s hunts for inspiration (Dean’s ignoring the how for now, because that’s still too creepy to contemplate)...or they’re really that misguided. Bobby’s still working on figuring it out, but the website is suspiciously encrypted like the goddamn Pentagon. 

 

“Is he moving yet?” Dean demands, rubbing his wrists raw trying to snap the ropes binding them to the tree. 

 

Emily’s eyes are fixed on the scarecrow that the Vanir is going to possess in order to accept the sacrifice. “I...I can’t see.”

 

Dean curses a little bit more. So much for their strange streak of luck! He can’t see how he’s getting out of this one, unless Sam somehow manages to escape and come for them. But there’s no Sam and nothing moving out there. 

 

Nothing but the damned scarecrow looming over them, silent and still. 

 

Dean’s not one to sit around and wait for death, but he’s plum out of options. “Emily, I’m sorry.”

 

Emily turns to him, eyes wide. “No! No, you’ve got a plan... _something_.”

 

Dean’s eyes stray to the scarecrow again, except it’s not there. His stomach sinks and his pulse picks up. “Oh shit…”

 

Suddenly, Emily screams. 

 

Dean feels like his heart is going to burst. Adrenaline shoots through him until he’s buzzing. A shadow looms to their left, Emily’s scream cuts off...and Dean falls forward, the ropes holding them back suddenly just _gone._

 

He scrambles to his hands and knees, leaping to his feet. In one swift movement, he whirls around and sees it, standing there, its sickle held out. The two ends of the cleanly sliced rope lay at its feet. Dean stares, he can’t help it. It’s one fugly piece of work. He feels like it’s peering into his soul as a strange kind of calm settles between them. He keeps expecting it to lunge, growl, anything, but it doesn’t. Emily scrambles in the dirt and leaves, chest heaving with sobs, but that seems almost insignificant. 

 

The Vanir says something. Dean doesn’t understand it at all, but he hears one thing he _does_ understand. His name, _Winchester_. 

 

“What?” Emily breathes, horrified. 

 

And then the Vanir simply turns and walks away, bloodstained sickle glinting in the moonlight. 

 

Dean doesn’t question it at the time. How can he, pumped up on adrenaline and with more important things on his mind? He grabs Emily and together they creep back into town, blood singing in their ears from their close brush with death. They find Sam still locked in the cellar, knocked out cold. Dean slaps him awake. 

 

Voice grim, he gives the order to flee. The town is oddly silent as they race for the Impala. Dean would have thought the townspeople would have tried to stop them, but they’re not there. There are signs of a large gathering, but the streets are eerily abandoned. There’s no sign of the Vanir. 

 

They put one hundred miles between them and the town before they stop. 

 

“We need to go back,” Sam starts immediately. “Before next year is up, we need to go back and burn that tree.”

 

Dean still hasn’t told him what happened. He doesn’t want Emily to hear this. He goes along with it for now, sleeps restlessly, too preoccupied to do much more than stare at the ceiling, tracing the stains on the bad paint-job with blood-shot eyes. His mind is racing. Sam’s usually the geekboy when it comes to putting the pieces together, but Dean’s no slouch himself. He’d just rather leave that part to someone else, if he has a choice. 

 

But Sam still doesn’t know and Dean hasn’t told him yet, so it’s up to him to work it out. The question remains though, he and Emily were two perfectly viable sacrifices...so why the hell would the Vanir not have taken them? Better yet, why would it release them? And call him by _name?_

 

_It recognized me. It knew me._

 

He sits up in the dark of the motel. Emily is in the adjoining room, Sam on the other single in this room, snoring away like the giant bear he is. Dean boots up Sam’s laptop in the dark quietly. Sam doesn’t stir. His brother has the website bookmarked and he clicks on it without hesitation. 

 

There’s been an update. 

 

Already. 

 

He lets out a shaky exhale and closes his eyes. The website isn’t natural. It has to be supernatural. But since when have supernatural creatures been that good at technology? 

 

There’s no helping it. He goes to wake up Sam and silently hands the laptop over, screen bright and luminescent in the dark. Sam’s sleepy eyes blink at the screen, the whites reflected almost demonically by the colorful glow. 

 

“We’re not going back to that town,” Dean begins seriously. “We’re going to Bobby’s.”

 

Sam continues to stare at the website. “And Dad and the demon?”

 

Dean laughs, short, bitingly. “I think we have more immediate problems, don’t you?” And then he explains everything. 

 

***

 

T he best that Bobby can come up with is that there’s some kind of pagan _something_ keeping an eye on them. He drills them both on who they’ve saved and how they’ve saved them. Asks them if they’ve done any innocuous rituals lately. Accidentally made an offering to a pagan god or goddess - or something. 

 

Why pagan? 

 

Because it’s been a recurring theme. The herb bags at the motels. Even the stupid pillow mints had a little extra something in them, though not before Dean ate far too many of them for comfort. There’s the fact that Dean and Sam are described on the website as semi-benevolent pagan deities, and now the reaction of the Vanir. That’s really the clincher. The last fucking straw. 

 

“Nothing?” Bobby barks, tugging on his cap in frustration. “You sure you didn’t accidentally help out a pagan god on a hunt? Accidentally leave an offering for protection maybe? Catch the attention of a Trickster?”

 

Dean and Sam exchange helpless looks. “Nothing, Bobby. We’ve been focused on Dad, on tracking him,” Dean explains. 

 

“Well, if you think of anything else to add to the list…” Bobby gestures broadly in defeat. 

 

Sam shrugs. “Unless you count the exceptionally good luck?”

 

“But good, _how?_ ” Bobby demands. They’ve already discussed it, but not in minute detail.

 

“Well, I dunno about you, but I call free pie great luck,” Dean declares. 

 

“Free...pie?” Bobby repeats. Sam can hear the hint of exasperation in his voice. It’s fond. 

 

Dean grins unrepentantly. “What? No way I’m gonna pass up free anything if it’s offered me on a silver platter.”

 

Sam sees the light click on behind Bobby’s eyes. Dean’s eyes catch his with mutual wariness. “What? What is it?”

 

Bobby runs a hand down his face, eyes staring past them, calculating. He glances down at the list and shakes his head, looking a little uncertain. He doesn’t know. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but...offerings? 

 

“Sam, get that website back up.”

 

Dean hovers in the background as Bobby clicks through the site, expression grim. Eventually he stops after working his way through a series of links on the message board. The message board is new within the past few weeks. It’s a 

way for people who visit the site to discuss the ‘lore’ of the two brother ‘gods’. Mostly it’s just idiots who want to talk about dungeons and dragons or some crap, but occasionally Sam’s read posts by people who say they’ve seen ‘sightings’. There aren’t a whole lot of these types of posts yet - it’s only been about three weeks since the boards went up - but there’s enough to recognize a few of them as being real. They leave enough clues, sometimes even a town name. Sam has no idea how they even _find_ the website in the first place, or even have an interest in that kind of thing. 

 

“There,” Bobby declares grimly. “Balls. I thought so.”

 

Dean squints over Bobby’s left shoulder, Sam hovers over his right. “What?” they chorus.

 

Bobby jabs a finger at the screen. “Right there. Offering. You said it yourself Dean, ‘if it’s offered to you on a silver platter’. Then I remembered, right here.”

 

“‘ _I baked a pie today and offered it in_ his _name…’_ ” Sam reads out loud, nearly choking on the words. “What!”

 

“Bobby, you can’t seriously be suggesting it’s the _same_ pie,” Dean snaps, hackles raised. No freaking way is it the same pie he got for free. 

 

“Did you get free pie that day?” Bobby scrolls up and highlights the timestamp on the post. 

 

Dean backs away from the computer, feeling strangely violated. His _stomach_ feels violated. He refuses to let it impair his enjoyment of pie. Because there’s no way it’s correlated. 

 

“Yeah, we stopped at a diner that day before the job, but…” Sam trails off, shaking his head. “We hadn’t been there before, no one could have known who we were. It has to be a coincidence. I’m sure we would have noticed if the waitress had said anything strange or acted like she knew us.”

 

Dean nods firmly. “See? Just got lucky.”

 

“And why the hell would some random person bake a pie and offer it in our...I mean, these pretend gods’ name? I mean, it’s obvious someone’s documenting our hunts, but we’re not _actually_ pagan gods, Bobby.” Sam can’t stand to stay still any longer. He paces around the table, poking at books. 

 

“I don’t know, Sam, Dean. It seems harmless for the most part, but you can’t deny there’s something really wrong going on here. Have you been able to get through to John?”

 

Dean’s expression sours. Sam looks away. Bobby sighs. “Right, ‘course not. That bastard. Gonna shoot ‘im full of rock salt if he dares step foot on my porch again.”

 

Dean snorts humorlessly. 

 

At the end of the day they’re no closer to figuring it all out than they were in the beginning. Bobby warns them away from accepting anymore free offers of food, but Dean’s not sure how he’s going to manage that one. Free food is _free food_. And anything that doesn’t widen the hole in their wallets is a good thing. He’s not sure they can afford the luxury. 

 

“I’ll have a friend of a friend keep trying to track the IP address,” Bobby offers, fresh outta ideas by then. Meanwhile, Sam and Dean have a mission. There’s a professor of pagan folklore at an out of state university that they’re going to visit. Screw the hunts for now, Bobby says. He’s got hunters he can put on the jobs. They need to figure out what’s following them and definitely before it springs whatever trap it’s setting. He’s going to keep his ear to the ground for John.

 

They’ve worked with less before. Both Sam and Dean want to wrap this up as quickly as possible. Whatever’s stalking them won’t be doing it for much longer. 

 

***

 

T he phone rings not long after they reach their destination. It’s Bobby’s friend of a friend. His name is Ash and he’s a computer genius who lives at the Roadhouse, a sort of go-to bar for hunters. Dean immediately likes him - dude’s pretty chill - but Sam likes him even more for his giant nerd brain. If only Sam’s nerd brain came with the same decent taste in music as Ash’s. 

 

“So, mi amigos,” Ash blathers on over speakerphone. “Here’s the lowdown. This guy, whoever he is, is _good_. Me, I can hack into anything. And I mean anything. Except this. Which is no bueno. Means it’s got wards or something. Magic. Never thought I’d see the day. Smart, though. Gotta hand it to them.”

 

Dean and Sam exchange worried looks over the phone. “Okay,” Sam says, “what _can_ you tell us? Anything?”

 

“Whoa, whoa, relax. I said I can’t hack the site, but the message boards are another matter. They’re not as well protected. I can trace IP addresses used on the boards back to whoever posted them, easy-peasy. But that’s about all I can do, boys. So, if you wanna know who posted what, I’m your man. Otherwise…”

 

“No. No, that’s great,” Sam exclaims, eyes lighting in thought. “If we know who posted what, we can figure out which of the people posting on this thing has actually seen us, and if we can do that, maybe we can question them about whether they’ve seen anything else unusual…”

 

Dean can already tell its a long shot. “It’s not much, man.”

 

“Sorry, my man, it’s all I got for ya,” Ash interjects. “Well, ciao for now. Nice meetin’ ya.”

 

Ash signs off, and Sam and Dean are left to their thoughts and the dubious lead of a university professor. 

 

They pose as student researchers from out of town. Sam might still be able to pull off undergrad with his puppy face, but there’s no way someone of Dean’s age is anything but a grad student. Fortunately, the professor buys it. They say they’re from Kansas State, and make an appointment during office hours. Dean lets Sam take point, since he actually did the whole college research thing.

 

“We’re researching the emergence of modern day deities. Urban legends, if you will. Especially in a comparison study to the development of older pagan religions.”

 

The professor - Professor Winslow - is delighted. He’s a man perhaps slightly older than their father, reed-thin and long of face. He reminds Dean of a giraffe. He’s all nose and chin balanced upon a long, wobbly neck. When he sits, he dwarfs the desk. Dean thought Sam was tall, but this guy probably has him beat by an inch.

 

Enthused by their ‘research topic’, Winslow skitters about, pulling at books. He shows them the titles, asking if they’re familiar with the works. Sadly, they actually are. Most of these works are primary sources for folktales and paganism. What Dean hasn’t already read, Sam is at least familiar with, so Winslow is completely assured of their cover story. 

 

Sam gives the man the name of the website about, well, _them_ , and watches as the professor clicks through the site, eyebrows rising. “Goodness,” he mutters to himself. “Fascinating. You say you’ve been documenting its growth?”

 

Dean grunts an agreement, Sam actually replies. “Yes. We have. We can’t be sure of the time it first went up, but it’s grown considerably in the past several months. The legends have grown as well.”

 

“Yes, yes, I can see that! Absolutely fascinating. It’s rare that a so-called urban legend like this grows so quickly and so firmly. Especially an urban legend that crosses the boundary into religion. Since the growth of science and technology there’s been significantly less neo-religious development, besides the odd cult here and there. Well, Scientology, I suppose, but I’m talking back-to-basics - proper pagan worship. Haven’t seen much of that. This even talks of sacrifice and blessings. These two deities are supposed to be very hands on, I can see, much like the pagan gods of old.”

 

“So, prof, you sayin’ this isn’t normal,” Dean interjects, before Winslow can launch into a new spiel. 

 

“Rare, certainly,” Winslow agrees. 

 

“Then you should probably read the message boards,” Sam suggests dryly. “Because it gets stranger.”

 

Winslow’s eyes are glued to the screen, wide with delight. “These deities actually have worshippers!” he exclaims after a while. “It’s already a cult, and, given time, could even develop into a full-fledged religious following!”

 

“But it’s not _real_ ,” Dean points out roughly. “That’s what is hard to understand. Why are people following this? Believing in it? There’s no _real_ god out there younger than several centuries old. The old pagan religions have all been around for thousands of years, right? And there’s no mention of these guys in any of those old religions, so it’s obvious someone just...made ‘em up.” 

 

Winslow finally tears his eyes away from the screen. He leans back in his chair, which appears dangerously unsteady when confronted with his height. He taps the edge of his desk thoughtfully. “Hmm, now that you mention it, the lore I read on the site is an odd amalgamation - almost like whoever is creating it is simply pulling from every culture in the world and mixing it in as they please. A pinch of Native American, Indian, Egyptian, Nordic...you name it and I can see elements of it. But then much of the world’s pagan religions overlap, despite geographical boundaries. Take Creation stories, for example-”

 

Sam hastily clears his throat and tries on a smile. “Yes, we see your point.”

 

Winslow doesn’t look even mildly put off by the interruption. Dean’ll give him this, he’s certainly enthused by his area of study. “Well, all I can tell you at the moment is that the rapid development of this legend is definitely unusual. I’d really like to know who’s put this all together - or if, perhaps, it’s a joint effort. Either way, this is quite the treat - we may be able to document the birth of a new deity!”

 

Sam’s brain stutters to a halt right there. His mind stalls with those words. He knows that Winslow doesn’t mean them in the same sense as he and Dean hear them, but it still sends alarm bells ringing. Winslow keeps on, “I mean, who knows, one hundred, two hundred years down the road and these deities might belong to a practiced religion, their origin as a simple online urban legend obscured by time!”

 

Neither of the Winchesters really hear much else of what Professor Winslow has to say. They make their excuses and escape back to their motel. Sam dials Bobby the minute they’re inside, finger shaking. 

 

He doesn’t know why it’s shaking. Dean doesn’t know why his stomach keeps clenching unpleasantly, and why he keeps tasting that damn cherry pie he’d eaten two weeks ago. 

 

Bobby picks up on the fourth ring. “What?” he barks down the line. “Did you find anything?”

 

Sam swallows. “Winslow said...he said that it may be the birth of a new deity.”

 

Bobby curses. 

 

***

 

I t’s not too hard to put the puzzle pieces together after that. Someone is trying to create a new pagan god. Not just one, but _two_. And not just any pagan gods, but gods modeled after the Winchesters. _That’s_ why the Vanir had let Dean go. Because whoever it was wasn’t done with them yet - Sam and Dean still had legends to create. After all, no god was complete without belief. If Sam and Dean didn’t run around hunting things and saving people, there would be no grain of truth to feed the faith.

 

Bobby calls it a Tulpa. Says it’s the birth of a supernatural entity through the power of human belief. And that someone is using them to do it. Using their exploits as a template for the ‘idea’. And whoever it is, is probably keeping close tabs on them - could possibly be their unknown helper. It makes sense, when they think about it, because if they accidentally die, the legend dies with them. 

 

Dean paces the length of Bobby’s living room. “I don’t like this, goddamnit. Why us?”

 

“Why not?” Bobby grumbles. 

 

Dean waves his hand in a wide circle. “There are plenty other hunters out there! Hell, there’s Dad! Why _us_?”

 

“Your shining personalities, clearly,” Bobby snarks. 

 

“Who cares why they picked us - we need to focus on how to find them and put a stop to it,” Sam counters. “I won’t be responsible for being the tool that allowed a new monster into this world.” He shudders. 

 

Dean fights a shudder of his own. Sam is right, of course. They need to put a stop to it. He can only imagine how difficult a god made in _his_ image would be to kill. Dean Winchester is a tough nut to crack on a bad day...but a Dean Winchester 2.0 with supernatural powers? 

 

He wonders if it would look like him, or only like the memory of him that people imagine in their heads. Sam ponders the same thing, nose twisted up in disgust. 

 

“I hate to say it, but…we might have to put finding Dad on hold for a bit,” Dean admits, running a tired hand down his face. He finally stops pacing, collapsing next to Sam on the sofa. 

 

Anger flashes across Sam’s face. He can’t help but feel cheated somehow. The whole point of him and Dean hunting together was to find their dad and find the demon that killed Jess. And now some sick bastard is messing with them, forcing them off track, and it’s not fair. But Dean is right - they have to stop this madman. Or mad god. Who knows if this person is a human, a supernatural creature, or...some kind of witch. The more he considers it, the more he thinks it must be a witch. He glances at Dean. Dean hates witches - had a bad encounter once, never really got over it. 

 

“Okay,” he agrees out loud. “We hunt this bitch down.”

 

Dean glances at him, bemused. “What makes you think it’s a woman?”

 

“Witch, Dean. It’s gotta be.”

 

Dean groans. Bobby grunts. Then he stands up and turns towards the kitchen. “I’ll go put the coffee on,” he comments. 

 

They’re gonna need a hella’v’a lot of it to get through this crap, Dean thinks in agreement. 

 

***

 

“Here, found it,” Bobby announces with absolutely no fanfare in the small hours of the morning. “Knew there had to be a way to stop it in here somewhere.” 

 

Sam perks up, eyes blinking blearily. Next to him, Dean is drooling on several sheets of printed paper, the rest of his body slumped against the coffee table. Sam nudges him sharply and he shoots awake in an instant - sort of. He peels the papers off his face and wipes a hand across his mouth. “What?” he grumbles when they both stare at him. His words are punctuated by a jaw-cracking yawn. “Not all of us are super-nerds with super powers of book reading-”

 

“Bobby found something,” Sam cuts in quickly, voice tinged with annoyance. It’s times like these that he wonders why he puts up with Dean and his stupid cracks. 

 

Dean sits upright, suddenly much more alert. “Alright, lay it on me.”

 

Bobby shuffles over and plops the book between them. The writing is cramped, but legible. The most promising thing on the page is the archaic, asian looking symbol. “Tibetan,” Bobby begins, noticing the trajectory of their gazes. “So apparently, somewhere this symbol is collecting the belief and focus of all the people who subscribe to the website. The more people who believe, the more they fuel the creation of the Tulpas. It takes a lot’a belief though. If you find the symbol and destroy it before the Tuplas’re fully formed, you can take ‘em out.”

 

Sam squints at the page, eyes scanning the text as rapidly as his sleep-deprived brain can manage. “And if it’s fully formed?”

 

“What then?” Dean finishes. 

 

Bobby’s expression does not bode well. His mouth twists in a grimace. “Well, boys, that’s when it gets difficult. That’s when you gotta take away its power and figure out a way to destroy it...just like any other supernatural thingy out there, I guess. And pagan gods...they’re never easy. Damned powerful, the lot’a them.”

 

Dean lets his head thump back on the table. “Peachy.”

 

Sam stares harder at the symbol, committing it to memory. “Then I guess we gotta find this guy’s - or witch’s - hideout and destroy that symbol before it comes to that.”

 

Bobby’s eyes flicker to the laptop that’s stayed on the whole night. The screen is dark now, but Sam’s taken to checking the site every so often, anxious to stay one-hundred percent up to date on any new developments. “Best hurry,” he observes. He reaches down and picks up the book again, folding it shut. “And I know exactly where you should begin. Retrace your steps, talk to people, find out what they know - who they’ve been talking to.”

 

“Find out how the information is spreading,” Sam concludes, nodding.

 

Dean groans. “Awesome. Roadtrip.”

 

“Get some sleep, leave this afternoon.”

 

***

 

T hey’re on the road for a day with no luck before they remember Ash. Not half a day later, Sam’s email pops out a long list of every IP address to ever post on the website’s message boards. Most of them sound far too familiar for Sam and Dean’s tastes. They count a message from nearly every town they’ve visited ever since Dean collected Sam from Stanford and they dealt with that White Woman. There are easily five or six separate addresses for their most recent destination listed on the sheets. 

 

Then they see the IP addresses from Burkitsville and a shiver works its way down Dean’s spine. There’s too many. It’s like half the town has posted on the site. 

 

Sam immediately looks into Burkitsville, but there’s nothing. There’s not even any missing persons reports to indicate that the Vanir took a different sacrifice that night he let Dean and Emily go. Either Burkitsville is involved in one massive cover-up...or no one died that night. Sam’s not buying the second explanation, but he’s leery of returning to the town, now that everyone there knows their faces. If they do investigate, it’s going to have to be via a proxy hunter. 

 

When they arrive in Rockford, Illinois, they head for the address of the biggest repeat offender on the message boards. It’s little surprise then, when after a few hours of surveillance, they find out the house belongs to that girl they rescued from the asylum ghosts - Kat. 

 

They head back into town to grab a room at a motel, disturbed. 

 

“I don’t get it, how did she find the website?” Dean asks, leaning back against the covers of the bed. Sam doesn’t stop paging through the local phone directory they stole from the motel’s reception. “I dunno, Dean, but my question is, does she _believe_ it?”

 

“What? That the hunters she met were really pagan gods? That’s stupid. We don’t have any powers and she was right there with us, watching us get pummeled by those ghosts.”

 

“You never know how she could rationalize it,” Sam points out, finally stopping at the right address. 

 

They get Kat on the phone, agree to meet at a local diner hangout. Sam hangs up with a strange look on his face, brow scrunched in confusion, though Dean likes to call it his ‘constipation face’. 

 

“She sounded weird.”

 

“Weird, how?”

 

“Just...strangely breathless, nervous. I think she might believe it, Dean.” Sam stares at the phonebook with worry, eyes darting to the laptop in his bag. He wants to take a quick browse on the site, see what Kat’s had to say on the message boards, see what they’re dealing with, but they have no time. Kat wanted to meet immediately. 

 

Walking into the popular teen hangout diner, which apparently serves the best burgers and the best milkshakes, is like walking into a trap. All of Sam and Dean’s instincts go on alert. When they walk in, the conversation stalls and people begin to watch them, surreptitiously. That could be attributed to the fact that they’re strangers - big, tall, and if Dean has anything to say about it, good-looking strangers - but something niggles in the backs of their minds, telling them it’s more than that. 

 

They slide into an empty booth, feeling self-conscious. 

 

Sam leans forward, voice dropping. “Dean…”

 

“I know,” Dean replies, equally as softly. 

 

The waitress approaches and they both quickly straighten, plastering on their best winning smiles. Pretending nothing’s wrong, Dean immediately orders a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake (because they’re supposed to be amazing), and Sam, who plans to live past fifty and _not_ die of a heart-attack, thank you, orders a chicken salad. No milkshake. 

 

The waitress, Jenn, is just bringing out their orders, when Kat arrives hanging off the arm of her boyfriend. Jenn puts the plates down and two small slices of cheesecake. “On the house,” she explains, with little fanfare. 

 

They exchange looks. They’ve been hearing _that_ a lot. On the house. Surely the waitress wasn’t in on it as well? She seemed pretty down-to-earth. 

 

Dean hates this constant paranoia. Normally he’d think nothing of it. He’s a good-lookin’ guy and girls, especially pretty waitresses, are always in the habit of giving him free stuff. He’d like to think that’s all it is this time as well, except for the way the hairs on the back of his neck remain at attention. 

 

Sam pushes his plate over to Dean’s end of the booth and switches seats, so Kat and her boyfriend - Gary? Greg? - can sit down opposite them. 

 

“Hi,” Kat breathes, eyes sparkling. “Wow, I can’t believe you came back.”

 

Dean munches on a fry cautiously. They’re surprisingly delicious. And Sam hasn’t had such fresh greens at a diner restaurant for a long while. No wonder the place is popular. 

 

“Hey, sure, just here for a quick visit,” Dean says after a moment or two.

 

Greg or Gary gives the diner a quick sweep of his eyes. “Uh, it’s not another...you know, is it?” he whispers. 

 

Sam shakes his head. “No, don’t worry. Not another evil spirit.”

 

They both relax. “Cool,” Kat chirps. 

 

“Yeah,” Greg or Gary agrees laconically. 

 

Dean eats another fry, licking the grease off his fingers. They’re _really_ good. Salty and crisp but not _too_ salty.

 

“Oh!” Kat exclaims, suddenly, dragging her bag onto her lap. “Before I forget…”

 

Dean drinks his milkshake ( _also_ delicious, hot damn) cautiously as he watches her dig around in her rucksack. Eventually, she surfaces with two...well, for lack of a better word, necklaces. She plops them on the table in triumph, cheeks slightly flushed. “Here! Uh, this one’s for you…” she pushes the one with the green and blue glass beads, and the small wolf-head carving towards Dean. “And this one’s yours,” she finishes proudly, nudging the red, yellow and brown-patterned one with the carving of a buck’s head on it towards Sam. 

 

Sam glances at his brother, but Dean is staring at the thing like it might have rabies. Then again, it _is_ a necklace, no matter how manly it looks, with it’s leather cord, burnished metal fastenings, and generic glass beads. “Uh...thanks?” he offers, trying for a smile. He picks it up, fingers brushing over the clasp, and studies it more carefully. 

 

“Made ‘em ourselves,” Kat says, nearly bursting with pride. Her expression drops when she sees Dean hasn’t touched his. In fact, he’s stopped eating altogether. “You...you don’t like it?” She exchanges a quick, worried look with her boyfriend. 

 

Sam nudges Dean sharply with his elbow under the table. 

 

Dean jolts. “Oh, no, it’s, uh, great! Great. Love it. Thanks.” He picks it up and quickly drops it over his head. “Awesome. Nice job.”

 

Kat looses the tight expression. “Great! I hoped we got it right.”

 

“We?” Sam questions carefully, fingers toying with the clasp. The metal warms beneath them quickly. 

 

“Ummm, me, Gavin, and a couple friends. I’m no good with carvings, but I put them together. A couple of the guys in woodshop did the carvings and the beads.”

 

Dean pauses, a fry half stuffed in his mouth. “Wait, you made the beads as well?”

 

“Glassblowing,” Gavin ( _not_ Gary) interjects with a grin. “It’s awesome.”

 

“Huh.”

 

Sam decides it’s time to steer the conversation in the direction they need it to be going. He clears his throat and keeps his expression open and relaxed. “So...Kat. We’re curious about something, thought you might be able to help.”

 

Neither Sam nor Dean like the way she immediately perks up, looking utterly hopeful, like all she’s doing is dying to help. It was the same way with the necklaces. Like she wants to...to _please_ them and gets upset when she can’t. It’s disturbing behavior and pretty much affirms their suspicions that she’s been a regular member on the site and believes every word. In fact, Dean’s pretty sure the ‘god’ that’s supposed to be him is represented by a wolf. His hand drops to the small wolf carving around his neck and he wants to rip it off. He stays the impulse. He’ll wait until they’re back in the motel. An upset witness is not a forthcoming witness. 

 

“Anything,” Kat assures them. 

 

“Anything we can do to help,” Gavin adds, eyes ernest. 

 

It’s downright creepy. 

 

“Well, there’s this website we found. About...you know.” Sam raises his eyebrows and waves a hand vaguely. “We were wondering what you knew about it - how you found out about it, who created it.”

 

Kat’s eyes go round. “Oh,” she whispers. “The website? You know about that?”

 

Dean and Sam glance around, wondering why she’s whispering. No one else seems overtly interested in their conversation, but then again, they could just be pretending. He’s pretty sure Jenn the waitress has walked past their table four times now, eyes lingering. 

 

“Yes. We do. So, how did you find out about it?” Sam prods. He hopes they’re talking about the same website, but he can’t imagine there’s anything else to discuss. 

 

“It was _him._ ” 

 

“Him,” Dean repeats, warning bells going off immediately. A male witch then? 

 

“Yes, he said he was spreading the word, the truth. Trying to get people to sit up and notice what was really going on.” She pauses to glance at her boyfriend. He picks up where she left off, “Yeah, I mean, everyone thinks _ghosts_ aren’t real, but we know the truth. We told some of our friends, too, showed them the truth.”

 

“The more people who know, the safer we’ll be, right?” Kat concludes. “We can’t protect ourselves if we don’t know what we’re facing.”

 

“That’s right,” Sam agrees slowly, pleasantly surprised. 

 

“What did he look like?” Dean demands. He picks up his burger, takes a bite, and nearly moans in rapture. They were going to have to come back to this place some day. 

 

“Uh, tall. Olive skin, kinda Mediterranean, I guess. Like those Roman and Greek statues you see at museums? That kind of look.”

 

_European?_ Sam thinks in surprise. An old witch, then. Possibly very old. Possibly someone who’s been around the block, done this before. 

 

“And he just, what, gave you the web address and told you to educate yourselves?” Dean enquires skeptically.

 

Kat shrugs. “Pretty much.”

 

“And you just believed him? Believe all of it?” Dean pushes, still disbelieving. 

 

“Well, it made sense, didn’t it?”

 

Sam leans forward, lowering his voice. “And if we said we’re not? That it’s a hoax?”

 

Kat grins and shakes her head, trying to hide a laugh. Gavin looks anywhere but at them. 

 

“We get it. He explained everything.”

 

“Explained _what_ exactly?” Dean barks, suddenly fed up with going around in circles. 

 

Kat shrinks back and Gavin puts a protective arm around her shoulders. Dean tenses when he realizes they’re the center of attention again, half the kids in the diner watching them with guarded eyes. 

 

Sam nudges his arm warningly. “Hey,” he soothes, “sorry about him, he’s an ass.”

 

Dean pulls his free cheesecake towards himself and takes a large, vicious forkful. He probably shouldn’t, but this weird pagan tulpa shit is not going to stop him enjoying a fine piece of cheesecake. He’ll get Sam back for that comment later. Short-sheet his bed, or something. 

 

“Just tell us what the man said, everything,” Sam coaxes. 

 

Kat steels herself. Eventually, haltingly, they get the whole story. A man appeared the day after Sam and Dean left, and like some kind of wandering preacher, began extolling their virtues. He claimed that they were homeless gods, who, for lack of followers, wandered the countryside, answering pleas for help along the way and asking for little in return except faith. The more followers they have, the stronger they will be, and the more they can help people. 

 

The man gave Kat the website address and told her everything she needed to know was there. He claimed that he was a simple man trying to spread the word, trying to help the gods help the people. 

 

It’s all very touching, and complete bullshit. Sam can see why Kat fell for it, though. It’s very romanticized. Exactly the kind of crap that a teenage girl wants to believe in. 

 

They try to convince her it’s not true. Dean especially. Kat, and even Gavin, just shake their heads and tell them that the man said they’d try that. That they know about the supernatural hunters who would try to get rid of them, if they knew who they were. That they’d keep the secret, but help spread the word. 

 

Sam and Dean leave in defeat, necklaces in hand, and somehow tricked out of paying the diner bill. 

 

“It’s not right,” Sam mutters on their way back to the motel. “It’s all sorts of wrong.”

 

“It’s working though,” Dean growls. “The bastard who put this together is smart. He knows how to play them, make them believe, so the tulpas form.”

 

“You can’t kill an idea once it’s been planted,” Sam agrees heavily. “Jesus.” He runs a hand through his hair. 

 

“What I don’t get is...why create two gods who _hunt_ the supernatural? It makes no sense.”

 

“Maybe it’s just the easiest way. Maybe the idea will twist as it grows. Who knows.”

 

Dean contemplates the wheel under his hands for a few moments as he smoothly pulls into the parking space in front of their room. He kills the engine and they sit there for a minute in silence. Eventually he pulls the keys out and they jangle loudly. “Well, think of it this way, until we catch the bastard and kill the tulpas...at least we’re getting lots of free stuff.”

 

Sam frowns, hand pausing on the door handle. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

 

“S’not like it can hurt _us_ , Sammy. We’re not actually _gods_. We’re just being used. I say take advantage.”

 

But something still doesn’t sit right about all of this. There’s nothing more to figure out, apart from the identity of the perpetrator, and yet…

 

Something just doesn’t sit right. 

 

***

 

A sking around gets them the same description - a man, Romanesque, suave, convincing. Dean and Sam now have a collection of charms, bracelets and more free food than they know what to do with. Bobby advises them to throw it away. Dean can’t condone getting rid of perfectly edible food offered to them by misguided idiots. 

 

“Just think of it this way - it’s not going to the real tulpas, if we eat it,” he argues. 

 

“Idjit,” Bobby snaps. “It doesn’t matter who eats it, so long as it fuels the _idea_.” 

 

“We need to get this guy, but we have no idea where he is,” Sam exclaims. He’s tired and sick of chasing shadows, just like Dean. They’ve spent a week driving to all their past hunts, trying to find this guy. 

 

Dean sits up suddenly. “Yes, yes we do. We don’t know where he is _now_ , but we can predict where he’ll _be_.”

 

Bobby’s eyebrows rise. “Huh. Smart.”

 

Sam lets out a relieved laugh. Good, Dean’s not going to have to smother him in his sleep, after all, just to get some peace. “Of course,” Sam beams. “He’s following our hunts. All we have to do is go on a hunt and then stick around afterwards. We should catch him then.” He turns hopeful eyes on Bobby. “You got anything for us, Bobby?”

 

“There might be something in Pennsylvania. Hunter called it in, but can’t make it over right now. Wanted me to send someone reliable.”

 

They’ve got it all planned out: head to Pennsylvania, get the job done, make a big fuss about leaving, then backtrack and lie in wait. The so-called man-witch’s bound to show his face eventually.

 

They’re half-way to Pennsylvania when Dean gets a call on his phone from a person he never expected to hear from again. They switch directions mid-drive. Dean’s not gonna leave Cassie high and dry, at the mercy of some spirit. The tulpa bastard’s just gonna have to wait. 

 

But the minute they settle into their hotel in Cape Girardeau, Sam knows they’ve been followed. There’s a bowl of mints on the table next to a pot of incense. He and Dean take care to scout the motel when they throw the stuff away, but there’s no sign of anyone having been there but the staff. 

 

“Did he follow us…” Dean begins.

 

“Or was he already here?” Sam finishes, a lick of fear snaking down his spine. If the man was somehow capable of predicting the future...or at least _their_ future… He could be more trouble than they’d anticipated. How do you trap someone who knows what’s coming?

 

“It can’t be. Just means he’s been close, this whole time,” Dean decides, eyes daring Sam to contradict. 

 

Sam doesn’t dare. Mostly because he’d honestly rather believe they’re being stalked than predicted. He’s also never heard of anything powerful enough to know the future. Doesn’t mean it’s not out there, but he thinks it unlikely. 

 

“We’ll nab the bastard after we help Cassie,” Dean continues as he pokes through his duffle for the right weapons to take. “Hell, maybe she can be our look-out. If this sonnovabitch follows the same pattern, he’ll go after Cassie when we leave, try to convince her to convert.”

 

“We can be waiting nearby for her signal,” Sam figures. It’s a better plan than they’d had previously. Especially because Dean has a history with this girl and she’ll likely help them.

 

Then again, that’s some history they have. He’s never seen Dean look at a girl quite this way before. He’s always been the love ‘em and leave ‘em type before...but now? Sam wants to say that the look in Dean’s eyes when he talks of her - the way his face softens...well, it could almost be love. 

 

The great Dean Winchester, in love with a girl. Sounds impossible. 

 

Dean throws a pillow at his head, as if he knows what Sam’s thinking. Sam catches it and throws it on the floor. That can be Dean’s pillow, tonight. 

 

“Come on, Samarella, let’s go.”

 

Scowling, Sam follows. 

 

***

 

It turns out to be a little bit more than your run-of-the-mill salt and burn. Dean ends up as bait for a giant, black, devil truck and nearly gets squashed on more than one occasion, which, fair enough - par for the course these days. He just wishes Sam wouldn’t use him in one of his little experimental ‘Well, it might work, but it might not, but let’s keep our fingers crossed’ plans. If the truck hadn’t shattered on attempting to cross hallowed ground, he would be roadkill.

Then again, maybe not. 

 

When he’d been out there in the Impala, alone but for a possessed truck, he’d felt like he was being watched. He hadn’t exactly had time to scout the place, but he bet his baby it would have been that tulpa witch. Would the witch have stepped in, if Sam’s plan had failed? A witch that old and powerful (if it even was a witch) could surely have put a stop to the truck. Hell, maybe he even _did_ and it wasn’t the hallowed grounds at all. 

 

It’s a little disconcerting. 

 

The goodbye with Cassie is awkward, especially because they’re asking her for one more favor. They drive out of town, hide the Impala, and bus it back into town. It takes several hours to get into position, but Cassie never once texts she’s been approached. She keeps them appraised of her location, but no one comes to her house, approaches her in the parking lot of the supermarket, or at the bank - nothing. 

 

“He’s here, I know it!” Dean paces around the corner of Cassie’s workplace. “So why isn’t he showing?”

 

Sam leans back agains the stone and tilts his head back, frowning. He’s got his nerd-face on, the one that means his great, big frontal lobe is doing some pretty heavy lifting in there. “Dean...I think we have to start entertaining the possibility that, well, whoever this is, they can predict our movements. Almost, if not, to the point of seeing the future. He hasn’t approached her because he _knows_ we’re watching.”

 

A monster with that many resources and that much smarts is almost too terrifying to contemplate. It’s like the demon that killed their mom all over again. Their dad’s been hunting that thing for decades and it’s always been one step ahead. Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets and slumps next to his brother. “Maybe...maybe it’s time we tried telling Dad.”

 

“What, you think he’ll drop everything and come racing back? He’ll tell us to deal with it like any other monster. All he cares about is the demon.”

 

Dean shrugs. “But if he knows how serious it is…”

 

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Sam knows he’s being extremely fatalistic here, but he can’t help it. John Winchester is obsessed with finding that demon. Hell, Sam can relate, now, even, but that’s all the more reason why he knows that their dad isn’t going to drop everything for this maybe-tulpa. Honestly, Sam would rather be out there hunting the demon himself, but...he can’t abandon Dean to this alone. Not something this crazy and powerful. He feels partially responsible for all of this - the tulpas’ creator chose them for a reason - which means its up to them to stop the tulpas from becoming a reality. 

 

“So, what, we’re back to square one?” Dean growls at the concrete. 

 

They head back to the motel they never actually checked out of - maybe that’s how the witch knew? Maybe next time they really need to actually _leave_ the town before coming back. Sam pulls up the pagan website on his laptop and clicks through it to the newest pages. 

 

Sure enough, there’s already an update. 

 

When he checks the membership for the message boards, he swallows thickly. “God, Dean, there’s over three-hundred.”

 

Dean hurries over. He stares at the bright screen and the undeniable numbers. “How the hell…? We haven’t been that many places, have we?”

 

Sam quickly shuts the lid, not wanting to look at it anymore. Especially not the number for the amount of visitors active online, because that’s an additional fifty people who might be considering joining. And who knows how many people who don’t bother with the message boards but still visit the site?

 

Dean curses and paces away, again. “I don’t get it, I’m pretty sure if we count all the people we’ve helped, it barely reaches fifty!” 

 

“And their families, and friends,” Sam adds, resigned. “And when something grows to this magnitude, you start getting more traffic and...half these people might not even be from the towns we’ve visited, Dean. They might not even be from the States.”

 

“Aw, shit.” Dean runs a frustrated hand over his face. “You mean this could become global? How the hell do we stop it then?”

 

Sam stares at the laptop lid grimly. “I don’t know…”

 

***

 

L ife goes on. Sam and Dean go back to tracking their father, Bobby continues to spread feelers in the hunting community. No matter what they do, however, they can never catch the guy. They try, again and again. After every hunt they are sent on, they stick around - try all sorts of diversions. Every trick in the book is pulled. They get bupkis. And the site spreads like wildfire. 

 

The last straw happens when Dean and Sam are recognized before they even have an opportunity to introduce themselves - in a town they’ve never even set foot in before. 

 

In the weeks leading up to the moment the teenager recognizes them, they’d been through hell. Literally. After their latest run in with a demon bitch and her little pets, they’d stopped trying to track down their father. Neither of them really believes it’s a good idea to split up like that, but right now they’ve got little choice in the matter. So Dad ran off, they’re stuck with an unsolvable case, and there’s nothing to do but twiddle their thumbs and sit on their asses. 

 

Somehow, they end up in Texas, chasing the story of a murderous farmer’s ghost, and that’s when they’re recognized. 

 

At first they don’t realize they’ve been recognized. As soon as the kid, Craig, realizes they’re there for information on the Hell House, he grows all shifty. Like he’s got something to hide. For Sam and Dean, it’s like a giant neon sign screaming ‘interrogate me’! 

 

Then, as they introduce themselves further, start talking about the legend of Murdoch, the Depression Era farmer who murdered his daughters...the kid starts to squint at them. He frowns and asks, “Where did you say you were from, again?”

 

“ _Dallas Morning News,”_ Sam repeats patiently. 

 

That’s when Craig’s eyes focus with a little too much intensity on their faces. He takes a step back, like they’ve spooked him somehow. “R-right. Okay, well, that’s all I know. I swear.”

 

“Where’d you hear all this?” Dean demands carefully. The kid is seconds away from bolting. His eyes are wider than dinner plates and he spares a moment to glance around the store, as if trying to find the best exit. 

 

“My cousin Dana, it was her! Seriously, it’s all her!”

 

Which is a weird thing to say. _It’s all her._ All her what exactly?

 

They let the kid go, because they’re not gonna get anything more out of him like this. He heads straight for the back of the store like he’s on a mission. They split up, Sam heading for the car and his laptop, and Dean sneaking back inside the music store, taking care to be quiet and keep low so Craig doesn’t spot him. Kid’s in the back storeroom, but he left the door open a crack. It doesn’t take much to listen in on the conversation he’s having over the phone. 

 

“-worked, better than we thought! Remember that website - no, the other one - about the hunter gods. Yeah, that one. I think they’re here.” A pause, during which Dean silently curses to himself. Fantastic, so the kid’s a fan. “No, I’m not being funny, I’m being serious. I mean, I know what I saw in that house, Dana. It was a real dead person! If _that’s_ possible, who’s to say the other website isn’t real, too? And because it’s real now, _they’ve_ come.” Craig’s voice rises and falls, but seems to be trending towards loud and frantic. “No, it matches the descriptions! There’s two of them, really tall, kinda scary, really big. Like, could bench press some serious weights, big. And they said they were from the news, but it was a total lie, but they were really interested in Murdoch. I swear to god, I’m not making it up. Okay. Fine. No, but- No. But what if they really are? No, seriously, _what if?_ ...Well, I’d rather be safe than sorry. No, I’m gonna do it, you should too. Fine, but don’t blame me if it’s true and they’re pissed. Fine. Yeah, same. Okay, I gotta get back to work. Okay. Bye.”

 

Dean ducks down again and hurries away before the kid can reappear. His heart hammers quickly, like a jackrabbit. There were a lot of things wrong with that conversation, and the least of them have nothing to do with that damned website. For starters, there’s now another website. The kid is somehow involved in what’s going on with the Hell House. And what exactly did he mean by ‘it’s real _now_ ’. Like it wasn’t real before? 

 

It gets weirder from there on out. When they’re investigating the house, they run into amateur ghost hunters looking for cheap thrills and in way over their heads. Not to mention Sam’s being a little bitch about life in general. So what if Dean put itching powder in his boxers? He deserved it.

 

It’s only as they’re leaving the two idiot chuckleheads to their ‘serious scientific investigation’ that Sam makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and rushes back inside. Dean follows. 

 

“Hey!” Harry (or was it Ed?) exclaims. “I thought you were leaving?”

 

Sam ignores him. He goes straight for a section of wall they’d examined earlier. Fresh paint and too many conflicting symbols had them dismissing it as a prank - probably perpetrated by Craig and his cousin, Dana - but Sam slams a hand up against one of the very familiar symbols and stares at him triumphantly. “I knew I’d seen this before.”

 

“Yeah, seen a lot of them before.”

 

Sam puts on his best bitchface. “Dammit, Dean, this is the Tibetan sigil used to create a tulpa!” 

 

And oh. Oh shit. Dean wants a bottle of whisky and he wants it five minutes ago. “Son of a friggin’ bitch!”

 

“Tulpa? What’s a tulpa?” asks Ed. 

 

Dean and Sam suddenly have much larger fish to fry. This case has become dangerous. 

 

***

 

They figure it out eventually - they may not be able to affect the mysterious, magically encrypted website churning out lies about them, but on the matter of this second tulpa, Ed and Harry are pathetically easy to manipulate. All they have to do is get them to post something on their own website that will allow them to kill the tulpa. After that, it’s kind of a piece of cake. 

 

They’re sitting in a burger joint afterwards, having a celebratory meal - this time there are thankfully no annoying, laughing wall ornaments - when an idea occurs to Sam. He puts down his chicken burger slowly. “Dean...what if we started our _own_ website?”

 

Dean pauses mid-chew and stares at his little brother like he thinks Sam has had one too many knocks on the head. He swallows his mouthful of beefy goodness before answering. “What should we call it ‘A Beginner’s Guide to the Supernatural, by Sam and Dean’?” Sam bitches at him through the sheer power of his facial expression alone. Dean is unrepentant. “What? Because we seriously have time to maintain a website on top of everything.”

 

“No, I mean, all this started because of the website, right? So what if we set up our own as a counter-measure?” Sam gesticulates fiercely with a fry. 

 

Dean sets down his burger thoughtfully, because this level of thought requires actual attention to things other than how his food tastes delicious. “Set up our own canon?”

 

Sam blinks at him. “Canon?”

 

“Yeah, like rules of existence? So, counter-act the mythos of these pagan god tulpas by introducing counter-mythos…”

 

Sam stares at him like he’s grown a second head. Dean glares. What, he can sound smart when he _wants_ to. Usually he just can’t be assed.

 

“That...yeah. That’s exactly what I mean,” Sam manages when he pulls his brain back down from the clouds. He stuffs another fry in his mouth and washes it down with a gulp of diet coke (because he’s gotta watch his weight, the _girl_ ). 

 

“Uh-huh, and what’s to say it’ll work? We need enough followers to rival the other website for it to make an impact.”

 

Sam sips his _diet_ coke pensively. “Yeah...we really need to figure out where all the energy from those thoughts are actually _going_. We know how it works now...those kids painted the symbol on the walls and that was enough for Mordecai to materialize in the house, but then he was confined to the house. So either there’s a location where they’ve painted the symbols...maybe wherever they’re hosting the website?”

 

“Too bad Ash can’t hack their magic security,” Dean agrees. Not even Ash can be _that_ badass. Not that he hasn’t been trying, but even Ash isn’t going to touch a demon deal with a ten-foot, salt-encrusted iron pole, and any other kind of magic is severely restricted in what it’s capable of. Whoever beefed up the website’s security is definitely a witch of the highest caliber. To beat that kind of black magic, you gotta join it, and Dean can’t see any of them doing that anytime soon.

 

“But if they have the symbols painted in a location, will the tulpas be forced to manifest there until they’re complete? If we find the location before they’re complete, we could…” Sam finishes with a vague gesture of slaughter. 

 

Dean snorts. “And how we gonna manage that, genius? The website’s detailed as hell, but only a complete idiot would write up a way to kill off the thing they’re trying to create.”

 

Sam only looks smug. “Hence creating our own website. Get enough people to believe in it...we create a weakness, a way to get rid of them.”

 

Dean sighs and picks up his burger again. “Fine. Call Ash.” Discussion over. It’s the best plan they’ve got, so far. 

 

He’ll be glad when this is over and they don’t have to constantly look over their shoulders, wondering if someone’s going to recognize them. Worse, what if other hunters start believing this crap? That’d be the last frickin’ straw if they’ve suddenly got hunters on their asses. 

 

Sam calls up Ash and relays the plan when they get back to the motel. Or at least he tries to. Dean gets a tight feeling in his chest when Sam can’t seem to get through. It’s not often that Ash doesn’t pick up. Even less so that his phone is otherwise engaged. 

 

“Try again in five minutes,” Dean orders gruffly, eyes darting around the room. Nothing’s been moved. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling so paranoid. Something just feels wrong, now, the more he thinks about it. 

 

“Dean,” Sam begins, worry coloring his voice. “Dean, something’s not-”

 

He gets no further than that. Dean doesn’t see what hits him, either of them. He blacks out.

 

_***_

 

H e wakes into a situation he should be more familiar with, and yet the minute he realizes he’s shackled to a wall, his heart leaps into his throat and threatens to keep going. The second thing he does, is check to make sure nothing’s broken. Finally, the third thing, and probably the most important, “Sam? Sammy?”

 

There’s an answering groan. So far, so good. 

 

Dean finally peels open his eyes. 

 

They’re in a typical warehouse-type lock room. The kind serial killers keep their victims locked up in until they’re ready to slash them open. “Sam!” he hisses again, loudly. 

 

Sam is shackled to the wall opposite. Whoever has them is smart. They’re separated by quite a distance. When he tests the iron holding him, it’s got no give. He’s only human, he can’t break open iron, not with both hands shackled above his head. The fact that he can barely feel his arms past his shoulders is a good indicator that he’s been like this for a good long while. 

 

“Uggh, Dean?”

 

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

 

Sam finally peels his eyes open and immediately wishes he hadn’t. He lets his head loll back and groans. “Great.”

 

“My thoughts exactly.”

 

“Never got to call Ash,” Sam mumbles, a seeming non-sequitur. 

 

Dean gets it quicker than he’d like. “So it would have worked.”

 

“Probably,” Sam sighs regretfully. “Guess we’ll never know, now.”

 

“We were gonna screw it up, weren’t we?” Dean continues. And of course. They threw a monkey-wrench into the works when they finally came up with a plan that would have worked. Which means if they can escape, they know how to bring down the tulpas. _If_ they escape. Escape is looking pretty bleak right now. 

 

“Do you think they have enough belief already, or did we force their hand?” Sam wonders, almost hopefully. 

 

If Winchester luck holds true, they’re probably too late. “It’s been way longer than the time it took Mordecai to manifest,” Dean points out, wishing that he wasn’t being the logical one right now. Especially because his head is pounding like he’s got a hangover and he seriously can’t feel his arms. He tries to flex his fingers, but he’s completely numb. Awesome. 

 

Naturally, they try everything in their (admittedly small) arsenal to escape. An hour later, there’s not much change in position. Dean’s headache is worse, Sam looks pale and wan. Neither of them are in any decent kind of shape, especially their wrists. That’s when they hear footsteps. 

 

It’s the one responsible, the man witch. He’s exactly like he’s been described - Romanesque, with a proud, hawk-like nose, curly black hair and olive-toned skin, and some seriously sculpted shoulders. Dean’s a little surprised, because witches aren’t normally the type to take physical fitness seriously. 

 

“Hello, boys,” the man greets, his mouth a little moue. “You two always know how to screw up a plan, don’t you?” He shakes his head and tsks. 

 

“Happy to be of service,” Dean grits out, glaring nastily. Sam puts on his most impressive bitchface yet. 

 

“Well, don’t fret, not all is lost. We-” 

 

And, _Oh, shit,_ Dean thinks, _there’s a ‘we’?_

 

“-found your little ghost hunter friends. Very helpful. We convinced them to showcase your lore on their website. Your followers have doubled, nearly tripled. It’s astonishing, really, how quickly information spreads with the internet. Without it, we wouldn’t have been able to achieve this in so little time.”

 

Dean doesn’t like the way this guy keeps using the word ‘your’. 

 

Sam’s a sharp cookie and catches on even quicker. “What the hell do you mean ‘your’?” he demands, an undercurrent of tension present in his voice that Dean picks up on all too easily. 

 

“Exactly what it sounds like, boys. _Your_ followers. All gods need followers, no?”

 

“Yeah, except we’re not freaking _gods,_ you dick,” Dean snaps. 

 

“No, I suppose not,” the man agrees, a little too easily. He smiles at them. It’s creepy. Almost pervy.

 

Sam shifts in his shackles, the iron clanking. “So, go on then, I bet you’re dying to tell us what this is all about. Tell us how we couldn’t figure it out because you were too clever…” he trails off enticingly. 

 

The man shakes his head with a small chuckle. “Oh, Sam, I’m not that stupid. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait to find out. I’m sure you’ll be surprised, though. Don’t worry, you won’t have to wait long. We just need to wait for the others to show and we can get started. It’ll be quite the welcome wagon!”

 

And then he turns and leaves, chuckling to himself like he’s in on the greatest joke in the universe. 

 

“Well, crap,” Captain Obvious states, after the rusty iron door clangs shut. 

 

“Man, we are so screwed,” Dean agrees. 

 

***

 

Of course, neither of them realizes just _how_ screwed until it’s already over. But by then it’s too late.There’s no going back. In their defense, there’s no lore that deals with this, so how were they supposed to know? And when it involves such crazy shit as time travel, there was no way to see it coming. 

 

***

 

S am doesn’t know how they manage to knock him and his brother out again. No one touches them. It’s gotta be some kind of witchy power. When he next wakes up, he and Dean are chained instead to a floor in a large, open warehouse space inside some kind of ritual circle. Ritual sacrifice, that’s just perfect. A pained kind of resignation flowers in his gut. Something tells him the cavalry isn’t going to make it this time - this is the end. They’ve had a good run, but it’s over now. He just regrets that he wasn’t able to avenge Jess’s death properly. He can only hope Dad gets that bastard demon.  


 

“They’re awake.”

 

“Good, we can start.”

 

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this.”

 

“I told you, it’s the only way.”

 

“But they’re _hunters_.”

 

Sam manages to move a foot enough to kick Dean into consciousness. His brother shoots up and looks around wildly. His chains clink like crazy. 

 

Together, they take further stock of the room. 

 

There’s at least fifteen other people in the room. The more Sam looks at them, the more he realizes this is something a lot more serious than a witch trying to create tulpas. The beings - and yes, they’re beings - in the room are as varied as the cultures they represent. They look like they’ve come from the four corners of the world to attend this little gathering. But the romanesque, Mediterranean man is clearly the mastermind. He steps forward as the others spread out in a circle around the ritual set-up surrounding Sam and his brother. 

 

This is bad. This is really, really bad. 

 

The man locks eyes with him. Next to him, Dean draws in a breath and lets out a choked laugh. “Well, guess this is it,” Dean mumbles. 

 

The man’s gaze switches to Dean. His lips quirk just slightly. “Yes, this is it, Dean Winchester. I’m sure you’ll thank us, eventually. If you ever want to know the whole story, don’t hesitate to find me, after.”

 

Sam’s brain jumps to attention. The man - creature, being, _god?_ \- is implying that they’re going to survive this ordeal. Maybe all they need is Sam and Dean as part of the ritual to create the… He realizes that this is not about tulpas. The people arrayed around them aren’t witches, they’re _gods_ (and goddesses). It’s so obvious. And Sam and Dean have somehow, inexplicably, been chosen as the next templates for new ones. Hunter gods. He just can’t figure out _why_. 

 

It makes no sense. 

 

Perhaps that’s why this man - one of the Roman pantheon, likely - is offering to explain, later. Saying that they’ll thank him, even. 

 

He glances at his brother. Notices, for the first time, that the wolf necklace Kat made them, is once more draped around Dean’s neck. He looks down - he’s wearing his own stag one. In fact, they’re decked out in all the little trinkets people have been making for them and then some. Suddenly, a line of fire flares on the outside of the circle and Sam can clearly see the small offerings placed at even points around them. The fire flares brighter as the god steps back and joins hands with the rest. 

 

Sam glances at Dean one last time, their eyes lock. _I’m sorry,_ Dean mouths at him. Sam shrugs as best he can in response. This isn’t Dean’s fault. 

 

The fire turns burning white and Sam is forced to shut his eyes. He feels the power swell in the room and collect inside the circle...inside _them_. The gods begin to speak, words he can’t understand. Something builds inside him, a fierce burning. He panics, straining against the restraints, but it’s useless. He’s afraid to open his eyes, afraid to see that maybe he’s got a fire burning inside him, now. That’s what it feels like, like he’s melting from the inside out. Like he’s living and breathing fire. 

 

Distantly he realizes he hears screams. Some of them must be Dean’s, but most of them are his. 

 

The burning reaches a crescendo. The gods keep chanting, but their voices are drowned out by the crackling power, the fire and his screams. 

 

Eventually he blacks out. 

 

***

 

Dean exists.

He wonders if this is what it is like to be dead. He does not wake from painfully induced unconsciousness, but rather is simply aware. He feels the world around him like an extension of his body-that’s-not-there. The rest of him seems to exist wherever the majority of him happens to be, but he can’t decide where that _is_. Right now he thinks that could be the floor of a warehouse, but another part of him is saying, _no, no, it’s here, over here!_  

 

If he considers it carefully, his mind goes into a frenzy of overdrive, trying to compute everything he’s thinking and feeling. It’s overwhelmed and can’t cope. 

 

This really must be death. Clearly his mind is just having trouble catching up to the fact that he’s, well, _dead_. 

 

But if he’s dead, how is it that he can see and think and feel? Hear and taste and … _oh._

 

The air tastes like ash and fire and dirt all at once. It should be repulsive, but it’s not. He sees the currents of power snaking through the room, follows them back to bright, blazing stars in all the colors of the rainbow. They dance and flare with emotions and desires, each one unique and eternal. 

 

He hasn’t even opened his eyes yet.

 

And he does have eyes. He has eyes and a nose, and a mouth. He has a body, a strong, lithe, young body. He can feel every inch of it, all the coiled strength and power running through it. He’s got his own bright star pulsing away inside, but he ‘sees’ that his color swirls between a cobalt blue and an earthy, jade green, streaked with little eddies of gold. That’s him. 

 

That’s when he panics and snaps his eyes open. Sits up as metal chains crumble to nothing more than dust. He turns his head and stares at his brother, lying slumped in his own chains. Sam is Sam and yet not. Sam is now brilliant bronze, red and orange, like a molten sunset, and power, deep welling power. 

 

He finally turns to the wispy silver presence - wispy though not weak - and demands of the god, the one who started this all, “What did you do to us?”

 

And the god responds, an almost rueful regret tinging his voice, which echoes with the eddies of his power, “We created you anew. Welcome, Dean, to your new existence.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....yeah. There we have it. Like I said, liberal twisting of SPN lore. I thought about not including that last scene and making you all wait for the next chapter, but...I threw it in there. You're welcome.
> 
> Also, I think I may be just a _tad_ biased towards Dean's pov. You know, just a little.


	3. The Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean realise godhood comes with perks, and then not so much. Things are explained. Also, Bobby is so, so done with this shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (So, because it's my birthday, I thought I'd gift you all with the final chapter, ENJOY)

_The Change:_

 

_*_

 

D ean is left to come to terms with a reality he can’t wrap his mind around. Sam remains unconscious next to him in the ritual circle. The rest of the gods and goddesses simply disappear, like they were never there. He can sense - _sense, dammit_ \- that they are restless and nervous. They’re running away.

He’s overwhelmed. He can’t focus on one thing for too long before something else distracts him. First it’s the blinding presence of the other gods. When the last of their energies disappear, they leave echoing patterns, like a psychedelic imprint. With his eyes closed he could have pointed to each place where a god or goddess had stood and described them with far too accurate a detail.

Ignoring the energies and currents in the air only brings his other senses to his attention - smell, sight, hearing, touch. Hell, even taste. He can taste the ash on the air, smell the mildew and iron rust of the warehouse - the soap from the laundry detergent they’d last used, what Sam ate for lunch. The oil from his gun. He follows the scent and finds all of his and Sam’s weapons piled in a corner. Even from over twenty feet away, his eyes can trace every gleaming outline of burnished metal with excruciating detail. He can see the invisible strands of a spider’s cobweb in the dirtied, rectangular warehouse windows.

He closes his eyes again and sucks in a slow, steady breath. Even with the flood of new information, he continues to breathe - in and out. If he stops, he’s going to scream. He wants to punch something. Whatever the gods did to them - and he knows, _he fucking knows_ \- they’re not human anymore.

Bobby. They have to get to Bobby. Bobby can reverse it… somehow. It’s the only kernel of hope he can cling to. 

 

He reaches for Sam’s chains, determined to get them out of there. The chains crumble away at his touch. He feels a slight tingle rush through his body as it happens. Resolutely ignoring that, he shoves Sam’s giant shoulder so the Sasquatch rolls onto his back. 

 

“Sam, wake up.”

 

Sam doesn’t move. 

 

Dean bends over his brother to slap him awake, but halts, gulping. Sam’s...different. He looks just a little too perfect - skin one solid, airbrushed tone, hair no longer greasy but shining bronze with a touch of auburn. Quickly, Dean picks up Sam’s giant monster hands, but they’re baby smooth and perfect. He turns both their hands over, staring at the unblemished skin with horror. His fingers shake a little when he prods at his shoulder where he has a bullet scar, but there’s no longer the slightly raised, circular ridge of flesh - it’s perfectly smooth.

“Those goddamn sons of bitches.” He reaches over and smacks Sam hard. “Wake the fuck up, Sammy!” 

 

He didn’t mean to hit him that hard, but Sam skids a good few feet. Super strength? Also check. Shit. 

 

Sam suddenly gasps and surges upwards in a flurry of giant limbs and flapping shirttails. He rolls over onto his knees and coughs and splutters. 

 

Dean stumbles to his feet, thinking he should feel a lot more unsteady than he actually does. Instead, his balance feels perfect, like he could tightrope drunk with a glass of whisky on his head and not spill a drop. Each step feels like he’s walking on air. He grips Sam’s elbow to steady him, feeling a pang in his chest when Sammy’s confused golden eyes rise to meet his. Gold. His little brother’s eyes are fucking _gold._ Dean’s must be some creepy, non-human color as well, because Sam’s eyes widen and he jerks back, falling on his ass. 

 

“Your eyes are…” Sam whispers. 

 

“Yours are gold,” Dean returns flatly. “Come on, get up. We need to get to Bobby’s.”

 

Sam pulls himself upright, eyes darting every which way in astonishment. “Dean…what…”

 

“There were no tulpas,” Dean manages bitterly. He still can’t believe it. He thinks he might still be partially in denial. The rest of his brain is running on nothing but pure determination. If not, he’d probably be in shock. 

 

“We...we were the...all along, it was _us_ ,” Sam concludes weakly. “Oh god.”

 

“We need to get to Bobby’s,” Dean repeats. 

 

Together, they make it out of the warehouse. They collect their things and find themselves in the middle of nowhere, not a car or pay phone in sight. Neither of them has a cellphone on them. They’re stuck. 

 

Dean thinks longingly of his Baby, abandoned in a motel parking lot like trash. All the more reason to murder some piece of shit gods the next time he gets a chance. 

 

“I don’t get it.” Sam’s voice cracks. “It doesn’t make any _sense,_ Dean.”

 

“I know, goddamnit.”

 

“What was the point? Why did they do this? Why not just kill us?”

 

“You think I know what goes through their twisted minds?” Dean snaps. 

 

Sam takes a few steps onto the broken gravel path that leads across a barren expanse of dusty flatland. They really are in the middle of nowhere. He turns back to stare at the warehouse. “He said we’d want answers.”

 

“Bastard,” Dean breathes, eyes narrowing when he thinks of the god responsible for this. For...for forcing this on them. Whatever _this_ is. 

 

“You think it’s just like the website?”

 

And there’s a thought. The gods from the website are new, but powerful. Hunter gods, after a fashion. Vengeance gods. They protect the innocent and receive offerings in return - according to the fake lore, at least. Automatically, his hand travels up to his neck, where the small wolf carving is still hanging. One god - him - is associated with the wolf. The wolf is his chosen animal. Dean has no particular feelings towards wolves in general, but as far as totem animals go, it’s not bad. Better than Sam’s stupid buck. 

 

“Hey,” Sam protests. 

 

Dean freezes. “I didn’t say anything.”

 

They exchange grimaces. They can add mind reading to the list, then. 

 

Sam sighs and shakes his head, resignation written across his face. “Let’s go.”

 

They start walking. 

 

***

 

S am feels like a newborn baby. Everything about the world feels brand new. All his senses are going haywire and all he wants to do is stop and take everything in. The only thing anchoring his mind to reality is Dean’s presence. Dean, who he not only sees in the flesh, but senses on every other level possible. Even levels he hadn’t known existed. Dean is the sky and grass and the sun all mixed into one. Sam is...earth and fire. He can’t explain it any better than that. 

 

When they start walking down the broken road, his senses reach out to what little plant life exists around them. He can feel each bush, each mouse nest and basking lizard. And that’s just his periphery. 

 

The road before them seems to go on endlessly. Sam squints into the afternoon sun (at least that tells him they’re heading west), and like a strange kind of zoom, his eyes find the end of the road where it intersects another. He wishes he were there, now, instead of at the opposite end. 

 

And then suddenly he is. 

 

He hears an echo of a shout in his head that feels like panic and fear rolled into one burst of emotion. It’s not his emotions he’s feeling...they’re Dean’s. He spins on the spot and finds the tiny speck that’s Dean at the other end of the road, just in front of the equally tiny speck that is the warehouse. 

 

A feeling of _Sam Sam gone panic where?_ washes over him and he shakes his head, trying to throw it off. _Shut up!_ he thinks loudly. 

 

The panic stills. _Sam?_ Hesitant, questioning. 

 

_Dean?_

 

_How?_

 

_I don’t know._

 

Images and feelings flood him again - Dean’s surprise, shock, fear and a faint tinge of disgust. Sam has to think, _Shut up!_ again, before it stops.

_Sorry. How do that? How move?_

 

It’s hard to get coherent words to form. It’s more like emotions mixed with words. Sam doesn’t really know what he did, and when he thinks of sending that concept to Dean, Dean sends back annoyance. 

 

_Think, want?_ Sam ponders. 

 

Two seconds later, Dean’s form seems to simply stroll from thin air. One fraction of a moment he’s not there, the next, he’s filling up the empty space like he’d always been standing there. 

 

“The hell?” he exclaims, whirling around to stare back at the warehouse. 

 

“I dunno, man. It’s freaky.”

 

“I’m hearing your bitching in my head, we’re way past freaky.”

 

“Jerk.”

 

Dean turns back around, throwing a, “Bitch,” at him like an afterthought. At least that’s normal. At least that hasn’t changed. “So...we can appear and disappear. Think we can disappear all the way back to our motel?”

 

“Worth a try.”

 

Neither of them mention how none of this should be possible. They’re both thinking it in the backs of their minds, but they try to push it away. Refuse to acknowledge it. Sam knows that if he thinks about it too hard, he’ll start to panic.

 

This is worse than knowing he’s got freaky psychic powers. This is the loss of his _humanity_.

Dean has that stubborn look on his face, the one that says ‘I’m a soldier and I’ll do what needs to be done or die trying’. Sam knows his brother’s only holding it together for _him_. Somehow...he just knows. It’s an unfortunate invasion of privacy. 

 

“Come on,” Dean orders softly, and closes his eyes to concentrate. 

 

It should be harder than it is. Suddenly having all these strange abilities and senses would seem like a problem - just like for anyone who discovers a new ability, it needs to be honed before it can be used successfully. But this...this is less like having ‘abilities’ and more like simply existing. There’s no need to think or _try_ , they just _do._ It’s pure instinct. Dean wants to be where he parked his baby, and so he is. Simple as that. There’s a deep well of natural power coursing through his body that acts like any other limb or muscle and all he has to do is think about it, and it happens.

Dean blinks out of existence in the middle of nowhere and reappears next to the Impala in a motel in Texas. Sam is only two seconds behind him. Dean lays his too-perfect hand on the roof of his baby and closes his eyes in despair.

“Get your things.”

 

They’re going to Bobby’s.

 

***

 

B obby Singer has been through a lot in his day. He thought he’d pretty much seen it all, by this point. He’s read so much monster lore he could probably write an entire encyclopedia on the subject. He’s the go-to guy for most of the hunter’s network across the U.S. and glad to be of service. But the day Sam and Dean Winchester walk through his front door no longer human, everything he’s ever known about the supernatural flies out the window. Because nothing could have prepared him for this. 

 

He honestly doesn’t know whether to go for the gun, at first. Whoever just walked through his door ain’t Sam and Dean, at first glance. He knows those boys like the back of his hand, and last he checked, humans’ eyes don’t glow like lamps. 

 

Dean stops just past the threshold, Sam a looming, golden shadow behind him. Dean studies him standing there, tensed to go for the pistol tucked at his waist, and Bobby feels like those jewel-bright, _electric_ green eyes are seeing straight through him to his very soul. “It’s the eyes, isn’t it?” Dean asks carefully, like he’s talking to a frightened animal he doesn’t want to spook. “They get like that when we’re…”

 

“Emotional,” Sam supplies, when Dean appears reluctant to say the word out loud. 

 

Bobby thinks he needs two things before he can deal with this: whiskey and more fucking whiskey.

Eventually, after proving no one's a shifter, or any other fugly, they end up at his kitchen table with more than two fingers of whiskey each. Sam and Dean sit stiffly, like they’re about to spook. Bobby silently downs half his glass before thunking it on the table. “Alright, boys. Lay it on me.”

 

Slowly, haltingly, they explain. By the time they’re done, Bobby knows only two things: what the gods did and the ingenious way they went about it...but the important question, the _why_ , remains a mystery. 

 

“There ain’t no lore anywhere that says you can attach an idea to a person and literally transform them...but these are the gods we’re talkin’ about, and who knows what they’ve still got up their sleeves?”

 

Dean looks shattered. “So...you think it’s permanent? There’s no way to undo it?”

 

Bobby looks between them and their glowy eyes and too perfect skin and glossy hair. The Winchester boys used to look hardened and worn down, now they just look like underwear models. “You tell me. What d’ya feel?”

 

Dean grimaces into his whiskey and downs the entire thing in a single gulp. Sam hunches his great big shoulders and scoots further down his chair, elbows hanging off the table. “It feels like...power. Like I’ve got a nuclear reactor inside me and it’s got this weird earthy flavor. I can _feel_ the earth, Bobby. Everything - the animals, the plants.”

 

“They didn’t just give us powers,” Dean finishes with a sour twist of his lips. “It’s more than that.”

 

Bobby reaches for the whiskey and pours himself another generous helping. “Sounds like you’re in it neck deep, boys. I dunno what I can do.”

 

Sam raises his pleading, puppy-dog eyes. “What does that make us, now, Bobby?”

 

Bobby laughs, harshly. “Hell if I know, Sam.” He puts his hand to his face. “Goddamnit. Jesus Christ.”

 

They continue to drink whiskey and Bobby starts to feel the buzz, but with the way Dean’s knocking them back he should be feeling more than a buzz by now and there’s no sign of it. He’s stone cold sober. Poor kid can’t even get drunk like normal people anymore. 

 

When Bobby’s feeling brave enough (or just drunk enough) to broach the topic, he questions, “So, what are you gonna do now? ‘Cordin’ to that thrice-damned website, you’re hunter gods who protect the innocent. Hell if I’ve ever heard of a pair of gods what go around killin’ the supernatural, but there you go.”

 

Dean suddenly slams his glass down on the table, eyes flaring. The whole table rattles like there’s an earthquake. “That’s what I don’t get, dammit! _Why?_ Why do they want gods who _kill_ the supernatural? Don’t they know we’re just gonna keep hunting?”

 

Bobby’s drunk, but he’s not drunk enough to lose all common sense. “You sure about that? Remember, gods are bound by their lore. What’s your lore?”

 

“It’s not _our_ lore,” Sam protests. He glares past Bobby, brow all scrunched in that expression Bobby knows Dean calls Sam’s bitchface. 

 

“No,” he points out roughly, “but they’ve made it yours all the same. Ya idjits. Had to go makin’ yourselves look like good candidates for godhood.”

 

“First in fucking line,” Dean sneers into his glass. 

 

“They should have wanted us gone,” Sam mutters. “Like dead-gone.”

 

“There’s an ulterior motive, there has to b-” Dean cuts off mid-word, eyes going glassy and unfocused. 

 

“Dean?” Bobby’s gaze darts worriedly between the brothers. For a moment Sam’s displaying the same expression of worry, but then his face goes slack as well and Bobby’s suddenly sitting at a table with two comatose bodies.  “Balls.”

 

***

 

B eing summoned isn’t like a getting a phone call - it’s the IMAX experience, complete with surround sound and enhanced, 3D picture. First Dean feels a faint tug in the center of his being, then his surroundings fade out, replaced by an image of those damn idiots, Ed and Harry. They’re kneeling next to a damn summoning circle, the alter’s flames just dying, the last syllables of Latin fading out across the clearing.

Dean’s a ghost, at first. He realizes he isn’t actually there, just his...mind. His body is still back at Bobby’s. But the summoning ritual is persistent. It’s a tug at first, but it becomes a determined yank soon enough. 

 

_Dean?_

 

Dean turns his head. Sam’s...Sam-ness shimmers next to him, attention on Ed and Harry as well, a frown on his glowy, mutable face. _Idiots,_ Dean thinks. Sam’s emotions echo agreement. 

 

“I knew it, it’s a fake,” Ed declares dramatically, standing and stalking away from the circle and the smoking alter. “That guy totally ripped us off! Now we’ll never get rich!”

 

“Ed, I don’t think these are wish-granting gods. Maybe that’s why?” 

 

“So? It’s a summoning, they’re supposed to _come_.”

 

And suddenly, Dean’s pissed. A swell of slow simmering rage begins to heat in his gut. The feeling echoes and feeds off of Sam, until Dean’s fuming. _Come?_ his mind swirls, _Come?_ _I’m not a dog! I don’t_ come.

 

The supernova power inside him washes over his mind, a little niggling voice that whispers words of wrath. _How dare they?_ it goads, _Presumptuous little monkeys!_

 

Throughout it all, the summoning ritual continues to grow in strength. The pull becomes a yank, like someone’s reached a hand inside his gut and gripped his intestines tight.

 

Dean feels himself stand up, chair tipping back, though his metaphysical eyes never leave Ed and Harry. His body takes one step forward and falls into the pull of the ritual. The sharp, insistent pull falls flat the same instant he appears behind the ritual alter, Sam right next to him. Dean can’t tell if they appeared at the same time or if Sam made it there first. His eyes are blazing suns, gold laced with bright tongues of orange flame. 

 

“Holy crap!” Harry yelps, scrambling back from the circle. Ed whips around, eyes wide. “You!” he gasps, hand jerking in an aborted finger-point. 

 

The tug of the summoning is gone, but their power continues to simmer and boil, roiling in displeasure. It reaches out to the earth around him, and Dean feels an answering response from the trees ringing them. Sam’s fiery aura reaches out and rekindles the alter, the entire thing bursting into flame. 

 

“Crap,” Harry repeats. “Edddd, they don’t look happy!”

 

Ed steps forward a few steps. His legs are shaking. “L-look, uh, we summoned you, it worked, so doesn’t that mean you gotta hear us out?”

 

Dean pauses, the anger cooling just a fraction - long enough for a little common sense to worm its way back inside his mind. Or, not common sense, just the logic by which this new, overwhelming power inside him exists. It’s almost like a living thing, whispering in his ear, _obey me, obey me._  

 

“You have a offering?” 

 

Dean turns his head. Sam is gazing across at the two idiots, arms folded imposingly. The sight settles his anger further, the rage retreating behind a thin wall of power, ready to be called on again in a moment’s notice. He feels bipolar - completely out of whack.

 

“Offering?” Ed repeats dumbly. 

 

The thin wall bulges out, rage expanding. Power grips the trees, stirs the wind. The trees moan. 

 

“Offering! Yes, yes we do!” Harry exclaims quickly, scrambling to his feet, gazing around him with fear. 

 

Dean’s tense frame relaxes. The grip his power has on the earth loosens and the trees all let out a sigh. Offerings are good - offerings have power. At the thought he feels a yearning quicken inside. Every part of his being is contented at the possibility. 

 

_Dean…_

 

Dean blinks slowly. He glances again at Sam as Harry and Ed scramble around like cornered rabbits. _What?_ he thinks. 

 

_Get a grip,_ Sam tells him fiercely. _You’re letting it control you._

 

_And you aren’t?_ is Dean’s automatic response. Now that he’s calm, he’s able to think more clearly and realize what he’s doing. What his mind and body are doing without his goddamn say-so. He feels completely violated. Whatever the hell those pagan bastards did to him has completely fucked him up. 

 

“H-here! A-an offering...like the website said!”

 

Dean’s attention is immediately caught. Harry plonks down an entire case of beer and something deep in his chest rumbles in delight. Ed looks like he’s swallowed a whole bushel of lemons when he sets a bag of apples next to the beer. Dean can smell their sweet crispness. Apples aren’t usually his thing unless they come smothered in cinnamon and baked in a crust, but these smell like the sweetest nectar.

“Accepted,” Sam states, eyes riveted on the offerings. “You have a request?” His words are scripted, pulled from his mouth by the power. It’s the lore. The power is beholden to the lore...and so are Dean and Sam. 

 

Still, if he’s being forced to do this, the least it can offer him is some compensation. A tendril of power snakes out and snags one of the beers, pulling it through space to land in his palm. He studies it critically - it’s not a bad brand. He supposes he’ll accept it. 

 

“Um, right, request. Harry!” 

 

Harry fumbles with his pockets, eventually pulling out a crumpled piece of lined paper, which Ed hastily snatches. “Yes, yes, so, let’s see, request number one...can you make us rich?”

 

Dean lets out a snort. There’s no compulsion to fulfill the request. No little niggling voice telling him to do it. It’s a ridiculous request and god or no god, making people _rich_ has never been a Winchester skill. “Nice try, chuckles.”

 

“A man can hope!” Ed complains. Dean glares and he cowers. “R-right. O-okay. Moving on! Can you get us an interview with a Hollywood producer?”

 

“Not a fucking chance,” Dean snaps before Sam can even open his mouth. These dumbasses are starting to get on his nerves - the Winchester ones, not the weird instinctual god ones. He pops the lid off the beer and takes a long swig. 

 

He doesn’t hear the next request. The rush that fills him from consuming the offering is like ecstasy - and not the drug kind, either. It’s like sex, but better. It’s pure power - just a tiny amount, barely a drop in the ocean - but it fizzes through his veins like the best damn orgasm he’s ever had. 

 

Maybe there’s something to this offering thing after all. 

 

“We’re _hunters,_ ” he hears Sam explain, voice gravelly and impatient. “Not _genies_. We avenge the innocent, hunt killers, destroy evil, not pander to your egos.”

 

“Also, you’re pissing me off,” Dean adds. “But the beer is good, so I’m feeling magnanimous.”

 

Ed and Harry exchange looks. Ed steps forward bravely. “Okay…” He takes a deep breath. “Okay. Then we want...knowledge. Knowledge of...of ghosts and ghost hunting!”

 

Dean pauses. A warm pulse of power acknowledges the request before he’s even finished processing it. It’s a pretty good request, all considered. 

 

The power inside him doesn’t wait any longer. As soon as he consents to the idea, it reaches out, twining with Sam’s burnished orange fire and their minds overlap. Dean can suddenly remember everything his dad ever taught him about hunting ghosts, and Sam remembers right alongside him. All that knowledge writes itself into a neat little package of information. All it takes is a thought and that knowledge shimmers into being in the shape of a small, thin book. It lies, pages crisp and fresh, on the dirt, until Harry slowly bends and picks it up. “That’s...that’s it?”

 

“You asked for ghost hunting knowledge. That’s it, right there,” Sam explains. One of the apples appears in his hand and he bites into it, eyes blanking momentarily with the shock of pleasure. Whatever power was used in the making of the book is already replenished. Dean finishes his beer and notes happily that there are five more to be consumed. He bets the apples taste like heaven. He kind of wants to find out.

 

“Don’t summon us again,” he warns. He refuses to be some kind of _pet_ that comes when the stupid idiot chumps call. 

 

They take the beer and apples with them when they go. They end up in the middle of Bobby’s kitchen table, where Bobby sits, on his nth glass of whiskey, cheeks flushed. He stares at the beer and the apples. “I don’t wanna know, do I?”

 

Dean pulls the beer towards him protectively without even realizing. This beer is _theirs_. It was _offered_. 

 

“Don’t flash your eyes at me, ya idjit. I ain’t touching it!” 

 

Dean flushes slightly. God, what has he become? Half the time he knows what he’s doing, but can’t stop himself...the other half… The other half is worse. Those are the times when he does it without knowing, without thinking, on pure instinct alone. Like it’s natural. 

 

It’s not. None of this is. For Christ’s sake, they just got _summoned_. 

 

They need to get some answers. And he knows just who to hunt down for them. 

 

***

 

I t’s easier to find Janus than they thought it would be. Dean and Sam return to the warehouse where it all changed and all it takes is a little cajoling, power carrying their voices well beyond the mortal ear, before Janus is stepping out of the shadows. He’s as marblesque as ever, eyes a silver pool of narrowed intelligence. His gaze flickers over both of them contemplatively. “I expected you’d have questions.”

 

Dean lets Sam have the floor on this one. He knows if he gets started, he won’t bother with just asking questions - he’ll go right to the ganking aspect of it. With Sam taking the lead, they might actually get some answers. 

 

“Why?” Sam demands, eyes flashing. “Why do all this? To us? Make us like this?”

 

Janus is smart. He doesn’t get too close. He walks the perimeter of the warehouse, fingers dancing inches over the rusted objects but never touching. “That’s the crux of the matter isn’t it?” he begins conversationally. “ _Why_. You don’t understand as you are, because the you of now has not, nor will you ever, experience what the you of tomorrow did.”

  
Dean growls low in his throat at the convoluted explanation. “Tell us plainly, you bastard!” he snaps, in no mood for word games. 

 

Janus glances up, sighing. “I am the god of what?”

 

“Duality, doorways, decisions…” Sam begins to list, trailing off with a frown. 

 

“Time,” Janus finishes with emphasis. “Choices. Doorways. Yes.”

 

“So?” Dean snaps, tucking his hands into his pockets so he won’t do something crazy like reach for a non-existent weapon and shoot the damn son of a bitch. 

 

“So, I have already lived what once was and saw our destruction. Honestly, you should be thanking me. We have now averted the apocalypse.”

 

And suddenly, this has become a whole new ballgame. “Apocalypse?” Sam repeats, mouth going dry. 

 

“Ah, yes, of course. I forget how little you know at this point in the timeline.” Janus makes an airy gesture towards the ceiling. “Angels. Judeo-Christianity. It’s the biggest religion in the world, sadly, and thus holds the most sway. So when the angels decided it was time for the Apocalypse-”

 

“Wait,” Sam interrupts quickly, “hold on! Don’t you mean demons?”

 

Janus glares at him. “No, I mean _angels_. Self-righteous, stuck-up, _powerful_ pricks. And dead set on unlocking Lucifer’s cage, getting him earth-side and having a world-ending battle between Heaven and Hell using _you two_ as vessels.” He points a firm finger at each of them in turn. 

 

Dean thinks he must be hearing wrong. “Lucifer? Heaven?”

 

“Vessels?” Sam echoes, plucking the one important word out of the explanation with ease. “What does that-”

 

“Vessels,” Janus cuts him off. “Angels aren’t much different from demons in that respect. In order to interact on Earth, they need to take a human vessel.”

 

“You mean possess. They _possess someone?”_ Dean growls. In other words, ‘angel’ is just another word for ‘supernatural piece of shit that needs to die’. 

 

A small, barely noticeable grin flits across Janus’s face and he begins to pick at his nails disinterestedly. “They need permission first, which was the only reason why, a couple years down the road, the world doesn’t end the day Lucifer escapes Hell.”

 

“You said use ‘you two as vessels’. Why us? Why do we matter?” Sam’s like a dog with a bone. But he knows that if Janus is telling the truth...and to be honest, with the Winchester luck, that’s more than likely...then the fact that he and Dean are caught up in this mess as ‘vessels’ is crucial. 

 

Janus pushes away from the wall and paces closer than he’s dared before. Dean begrudgingly admits that they won’t - can’t - kill the bastard. They need him - need his answers. Janus plants his feet three meters away and crosses his arms. He studies them for a few moments, then snorts. “Would you believe that you two are the culmination of centuries of carefully selective breeding, maneuvered by the angels and demons? Your parents brought together by the interference of a cupid and both of you birthed in order to perfectly mirror the roles of Michael and Lucifer in the final battle of the Christian Apocalypse?”

 

Dean feels sick. The air around them thickens to sludge, laden with their shock, fear and anger. Outside, thunder rumbles and Janus pauses to glance up at the warehouse roof. His eyes dart down to them again, expression tight. “We made you too powerful - put too much into this spell…”

 

“Stop it,” Sam whispers hoarsely. He looks even worse than Dean feels. His face is pinched and white, lips a thin line. He’s shaking, eyes flickering gold and orange, like dying flames. Dean’s eyes are an acidic green, almost neon, but his trembling is from anger. If what Janus says is true...he doesn’t want to believe it’s all been a lie. Everything in his life...just...what? All part of the _plan?_ Fate? Destiny? Destined to become a pair of meatsuits for two monstrous dicks? 

 

“Why…” Sam licks his lips, voice breaking. “Why did you have to do _this_ to us?”

 

“We had to be sure it would be irreversible,” Janus murmurs, more to himself than to either of them. “I suppose making you this powerful is a small price to pay in the long run.”

 

Dean snaps. “Goddamnit! Why? Why do _this_!”

 

Janus lets out a barking laugh. His eyes glint like deep pools of molten metal. “How do you think the angels are going to possess _gods?_ They’re not! There won’t be an apocalypse because you-” his finger picks out Sam “ _you_ won’t die in a year…” his gaze swings to Dean, “And you, you won’t be so desperate to get him back that you sell your soul to a crossroads demon and go to Hell a year after that-”

 

Something inside Dean breaks just a little. The very idea of Sam dead...that it would all go to pieces like that and he’d be fucking insane enough to sell his _soul_ to Hell… Bile bubbles at the back of his throat. He sees and feels Sam’s incredulousness written across his face and in every emotion pouring from his body to swirl heavily in the air. Their fear and anger perfume the entire warehouse like rain on the edge of a thunderstorm about to break.

But Janus doesn’t stop. He wedges the cracks wide open. “And in Hell, Dean Winchester, you’ll break after thirty years. The angels, they’ll wait just long enough for you to break and then they’ll pull you from Hell and guide you along, lead you like blind horses to water, so that you help them break the first and last seal holding Lucifer back. And Sam, you’ll do the honors of releasing him and become so tainted in the process you barely qualify as human anymore.” He digs in deeper, face a mask of cruel enjoyment. His eyes flick back to Dean’s. “And when it comes down to it, you’ll break, and maybe you win the Apocalypse, maybe you beat the devil, but so _many_ die in the process. So many humans, and creatures and _gods_.”

 

Dean’s knees are weak. He wants to just collapse and lie on the ground and never get up. His power swirls in distress, wanting to lash out but having no real outlet but himself. He feels like a nuclear bomb waiting to go off. Sam feels like a volcano ready to explode. 

 

Janus isn’t quite finished. He begins to pace, his amusement finished. He seems more like he’s narrating to himself now. “I thought to myself, how do I stop this? I came back, back to before it begins - early enough to make a difference, but not too early to upset the status quo. I had to be sneaky, do it before you make the deal and the angels start paying attention…”

 

“Why didn’t you just kill us?” Sam asks dully, voice thick. “If we’re that...if it was that bad...why didn’t you just wipe us from existence?”

 

Janus looks up, almost startled. He shakes his head, dark hair twisting around his face. “Oh, no, that wouldn’t work. An angel already tried that one, tried and failed. Killing you is pointless, the angels or demons would just bring you back.” He shakes his head again, sighing. “I thought about changing you into monsters and sending you to Purgatory...but that would have just put you within reach of Eve and still under the angels’ authority. There would still be a chance of reversing those types of changes. No, it had to be something that would remove you from their power completely. So we created a religion for you and now you exist outside their purview.”

 

“As gods,” Sam states, voice heavy. “Gods of the Hunt.”

 

“Among other things, yes. I’m sure you’ll do well for yourselves, carve out your own little niche here. You’ll be the first ‘American’ gods.” Janus stops then, seems to really see them - see what his words have done to them, how they’re barely holding it in. A brief flicker of unease crosses his face. “Come find me again when you’ve calmed down.” And without so much as a by your leave, he vanishes. His energy is the last thing to dissipate, but when the last vestiges of silvery energy are gone, Janus has fled.

There aren’t enough words in Dean’s vocabulary to properly describe what he’s feeling. He settles for the one thing that always helps release tension - cursing. “Jesus motherfucking sonuvabitch! Dammit all to goddamn hell! Why us? Why is it goddamn always _us?”_

 

Sam’s emotions flicker through the whole spectrum before settling on resignation. Dean feels it in the periphery of his mind and turns to stare. Sam sighs, shoulders slumped, his energy suddenly heavy and weighted, like his his soul feels physically burdened. “Because it was planned. We were _planned_ , Dean.” Why did it have to be angels? Sam despairs. He’d always believed in God, prayed to Heaven for guidance. To find out, now, that it’s not only real, but completely corrupted...it’s like his whole world is shattering around him, lies that were built on lies crumbling away. 

 

Dean glances up at the sky that he can see past the man-made warehouse walls. “Then how about we do something against the plan?” Slowly, his mouth sets with determination. Next to him, Sam’s emotions pick up. Dean can feel his intrigue. His mouth widens into a grin. “Let’s do what we do best, Sammy. Hunt monsters, kill demons...and screw over some angels.”

 

He turns to Sam and Sam nods, eyes brightening from burnished rust back to molten gold. He grins back.

*

_END OF ARC I_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote. For now.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments? Questions? Found a grammar mistake because this work is self-beta'd? (No seriously, if you found a mistake, please do let me know. I'll fix it)
> 
> p.s. I have [tumblr](http://supermagicmarvel.tumblr.com)


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